Too Soon: A Castle Fan Fiction
by CharacterDriven
Summary: My 1st ever entry for the '2014 Ficathon Entry'. Based on @Fembot77's prompt. All gratitude for Castle goes to Marlowe/ABC; I own only my own words in random order. It's been a long, fun, exciting ride. THANKS for your kind words, reviews, and friendly correspondence. You, dear readers, are awesome human beings. Estou feliz que eu fiz você se sentir fortemente. Muito obrigado!
1. Chapter 1

This was based on Fembot77's Prompt: Castle, St. Peter, Choices. Location: Pearly Gates

It was about to expire from its 90-minute time limit on so I did a few fixes that needed doing anyway.

**Part 1: Pearly Gates**

_If I could, you know I would_  
_If I could, I would let it go, this desperation, dislocation_  
_Separation, condemnation, revelation_  
_In temptation, isolation, desolation_

_Let it go and so fade away... I'm wide awake, I'm wide awake_  
_Wide awake, I'm not sleeping..._  
_BAD - U2_

"Oh, hell." Rick Castle was wide awake, all right, naked, standing up to his ankles (were those his ankles? He couldn't feel them) in mist. Before him, endlessly high, loomed a wall of cloud, and mounted in that wall of cloud was a pair of gates, made of mother of pearl. Ostensibly. That was a lot of oysters. Or maybe one really big oyster. One really big mutant oyster from space... maybe they just used extruded nacre from a giant, oyster-like wad of flesh, and if that was the case, weren't the Pearly Gates really made by a mutant from some kind of heavenly plastic?

"Ahem."

Rick jumped. "Hi." It had been dead quiet, with no one around, but here stood a little man, no higher than his shoulders. The little man was oddly ageless, also naked, but tanned, hairless, and smooth as an egg all over. He had a big nose, liquid brown eyes, and vaguely resembled Ben Kingsley's version of Gandhi. Except that Rick was pretty sure Kingsley still had his genitalia. At least, he assumed so; he hadn't peeked under the actor's' robe when they ran into one another at the Four Seasons Spa.

Rick nervously checked. He still had his hair, in all the appropriate places, and while he couldn't feel his family jewels, they passed visual. He wondered whether people had sex in heaven. Can there be a heaven without sex? Or pets?

Heaven. "Oh, shit." He looked at the little man. "I, uh, sorry, this … it caught me by surprise."

The little man held his hand out to shake. When he moved, Rick thought he saw something about him; not an aura, not a shadow, just a rippling blur, as if there was a great deal more power in him than could be contained by a semblance of skin.

They clasped hands and shook. The old man said, "Santos Petrus. And you are..." He obviously knew.

The whole truth, Rick. "Richard Alexander Edgar Rogers Castle." He suddenly found himself wondering if Kate had gotten the order quite right, or if he had for that matter.

"Haha. One of the Twice-Named," said Petrus, as if that explained everything. He had a little PDA in his leathery brown palm. "This database..."

Rick came around to stand next to him and peer over his narrow, bony shoulder. "What platform?"

"Let me just say Jobs worked on it." The little man frowned. "It's pretty, but it still needs..." he zoomed in with a nail-less finger. Apparently there is no keratin in heaven. But there are teeth. And pearls.

"Really? Jobs?"

"He could be a putz, but the OS got him special dispensation." Petrus opened up his handspan. The PDA turned into a fluttering, blurry, translucent, dove-like thing. Opening its wings wider, it turned into a sort of screen that hovered in the air before them, wide as Rick's arm-span. It made a sort of friendly, cooing trill, and a brief logo flashed: iSoul.

Rick grinned. "That is SO cool."

"As I was saying..." Petrus tickled the screen gently with his fingers, brushing here, tapping there. Rick's name came up; his date, time, and location of birth; his parents' names on both sides - although there was a blurry gray area on his father's part. His mother's marriages; his marriages to Meredith and Gina; a somewhat blurry family tree; Alexis; countless lovers – including Kate. So many friends, business associates, a few actual enemies... and to Rick's astonishment, his books, which apparently had souls all their own, lives of their own that went beyond him. He'd always sensed that; how he was trying to catch the words as they went by. The books had demanded to be written. That's why writer's block is so scary... what if the words don't love you anymore?

There were gray areas too, and he found them intriguing: A stray kitten that died, a dog he'd loved when he was seven, a girlfriend's surprise pregnancy that ended before he ever knew about it, a possible line of grandchildren leading from Alexis and two as-yet-unknown loves, a possible line of gray, blurry, nameless children and grandchildren and descendents that he and Kate might have had. "Wait," he said. "I want to look at those."

The old man said quickly, "You don't get to see those. They don't matter to you anymore."

"What do you mean they don't matter? Of course they matter!"

"Not to you. Not anymore. They're grayed out."

"Then why are they still there?"

Petrus sighed. "This is in beta. It's a relational database but I guess all the 'if's have not yet been 'then'd. Still a few bugs in the system."

"Sorry, but..." Rick barged across Petrus and tapped a gray rectangle. Petrus tried to protest, but Rick had faced down Katherine Houghton Beckett, and the old man was nothing compared to her. Rick didn't even bother to wonder whether wrestling an angel was considered appropriate. He held the old man by the chest, feeling something stronger than a ten-foot anaconda (or perhaps a wayward steering wheel) twisting under his grasp, but the link came through as he read right over the little man's head. A Huffington Post article. Rick's eyebrows shot up, and he gasped.

So did Petrus, flailing his skinny arms and kicking wildly. Rick was really glad the old man didn't have a package, but felt mildly concerned that his own might still be vulnerable. He wondered if he was quite all the way dead yet.

Rick read the headline aloud, just to be sure. "Heat of Justice: True Story of NYPD Detective's Battle Against Senatorial Corruption Wins Pulitzer for Investigative Journalism."

Petrus scrambled to fold up the wings. "No, no, no, no no. Oh, bloody hell."

_Whoomp_.

It was the sound of turning on the gas, then forgetting and letting the fumes build up before you light a match and set the kitchen on fire. It was the sound of an exploding Mercedes. It was the sound of Mephistopheles, rising up through the misty floor, oozing sparks out his skin. The living mists of Heaven's front porch fled bleating from around his hooves - or were they black patent-leather stilettos? Red lightning crackled around him. He resembled a hermaphroditic Angelina Jolie, dragged through a lava field with her hair on fire and working it as a beauty treatment. And he wore a codpiece the size of a cod. In fact... it might have actually been a cod. Latched onto the demon's pubic bone with a row of razor-sharp teeth, it was scaly, flapped around, and regarded Rick with implacable, glassy golden eyes. Its gills flapped with a steady rhythm. Rick thought "If I ever get out of here, I'm never eating fish and chips again."

Rick involuntarily stepped back behind Petrus with a little squeal.

Petrus murmured "Relax, Ricky, I got this."

Mephistopholes smiled unpleasantly, "Hey."

Petrus said, "What brings you down here?"

Castle croaked, "Down?"

Petrus waved, dismissing the distinction. "It's all relative."

Mephistopheles said, "You called me?"

Petrus shook his head. "That was a glitch."

The demon's laugh was deep and rich. "And how many times have I heard you say there are no accidents in heaven?"

"Wait," Rick said. "Am I inside the gates or out?"

"Yes and no," said both Petrus and the demon.

"Richard Alexander Rogers," the demon grinned sharply. His tone of voice reminded Rick of Captain Gates: "_Mister_ Castle". A gloating satisfaction in every defect. A probing hope for every flaw. Withering reproach for his very existence. Rick was almost used to it. He shook it off.

"I'm Mephistopheles. You can call me Meph." The demon held out an eager, clawed hand. Apparently Hell has plenty of keratin to go around, but their database was still behind.

Something niggled the back of Rick's brain. Something about The Rules. "You won't mind if I don't shake hands."

Meph guffawed at that. "Oh, you ridiculous little creature. That's just a formality. You're already mine." This time, the hand that reached for Rick was grasping, not friendly, and it seemed to grow larger and larger, lightning threading between the claws like a web, swarming with little red, spidery sparks.

If Rick could have felt his blood drain from his cheeks, he would have felt it then. "Wha- whu." It was like trying to talk after partying all night with those squatters he'd met in Dublin as a teen.

Petrus snapped, "Not so fast," and stepped protectively between Rick and Meph. Rick felt an odd, percussive force pass through him, something like that of a Mercedes being hit by an Escalade. He staggered just slightly. Meph curled back in on himself like a snail retreating to its shell. Except that his horns waggled, instead of eye stalks.

Petrus insisted: "He is twice-named. This is complicated."

Rick had to ask. "What does that even mean to you people?"

Petrus began officiously: "According to Universal Order Structure, article 1479835.1.a:" He cleared his throat. Meph rolled his eyes, and the codfish slapped its tail against his roiling lava thigh, patient as a 15-year-old waiting in line at the DMV for her learner's permit. Not so patient.

Petrus glared at the cod. "Do. You. Mind."

The cod flounced, then calmed down. "Please continue," said Meph.

"Any person who, from their own free choice, renames themselves in an effort to establish a new sense of identity, shall be granted special consideration as their actions are being weighed in the court of Universal Justice. Not only does renaming apply to such steps as legal identity change, this renaming also applies to silently-given self-defining or encouraging nicknames such as 'Champ', 'Honey,' 'Loser', 'Toots', 'The Hammer', and 'Avenger'. Those who choose the second naming of 'Elvis' or 'The King of _ (fill in blank)' will automatically have one point deducted. The rename of 'Dude' and "Jerry" will be taken on a case-by-case basis."

Rick said, "I don't understand."

Meph added, "People who rename themselves after fruit, beverages, or certain substances, such as "Cherry, Brandy, Sprite, Dr. Pepper, Peaches, Candy, or Amber, are considered to be operating under a handicap, and are given an additional point in their favor, because they need all the help they can get."

Rick thought of every stripper he'd ever met. "That seems fair."

Petrus continued. "It means you fully acknowledge free will. People who just take whatever their parents give them, without ever questioning their own purpose or motives, tend to continue through life on that same course. Those who redefine themselves..."

Rick finished for him. "We do for three reasons. A) we're trying to become something better B) we're trying to hide from our past C) a combination of the two."

Meph grinned. "I'd say in your case it's B."

Rick shook his head. "Nope. Anyone who cares to dig a little can find my birth name. That's no big deal."

Petrus said, "Why did you change it?"

Rick sighed, and from force of habit ran a hand through hair he could no longer feel. "I started out just... ashamed. Of my background, and my own failures as a person, as a writer."

Meph said, "I once heard you say you were a fan of all seven deadly sins."

"Not in so many words."

"Sure sounded like you."

Rick paced around, wondering what was holding him up in the clouds, then remembering Fudd's Law: when suspended in space against the laws of physics, _don't look down._ "Look. Everyone grows up doing stupid things. I wanted a clean start. I'm still me, but I took the parts I liked – the optimism and faith in people, the willingness to work hard, the curiosity, the part that cares and has fun... I'm a geek, ok? I'm just a geek. I'm also a major fuck-up sometimes, but I stopped not trying. A long time ago."

Petrus just blinked and tapped at the screen, barely seeming to listen, scrolling through a list of some kind.

Meph grinned hungrily. "No. You're more than just a geek, Richard. You're the One Percent. THE One Percent. Tall, handsome, male, white, rich, talented, intelligent, charming, so suave you even won over an Amazon like Katherine Beckett. And you don't deserve any of it."

Rick just stared at him, deflating. "I think of her more as Atalanta, just distracting her enough to let me catch up." But that was stalling. It was, of course, true. He wasn't worthy of any of the gifts bestowed on him, and deep in his heart, he knew it. The gates rippled and shuddered, and the clouds swished a little in the disturbed aether. Petrus looked at him dolefully, shaking his head.

The demon continued. "Life isn't fair, Rick. Babies are stillborn, dogs are put to sleep, mothers starve, fathers commit war crimes, asteroids wipe out dinosaurs, Firefly gets cancelled, there's no foam on your cappuccino, Crash wins an Oscar, nations rise, Alanis Morissette can't define irony, stocks fall, and there are some odd socks that will never, ever match."

Rick's voice was thin and reedy. "I worked for everything I have."

"Really. Luck had nothing to do with it?"

"Well yes, luck had a lot to do with it."

"And where do you suppose that luck came from? Do you think God just wanted you to keep Ferrari in business for another year?"

Rick was starting to feel fuzzy, having trouble thinking straight. He looked at Petrus for help. Petrus just shrugged.

Meph said, "You sold your soul, Rodgers."

"What?"

"You were ten. I was right there, sitting on the lion's back, on the New York library steps."

"I did no such thing."

Meph strolled past him, the impact of his platform shoes shivering the hard stones that appeared under his trampling soles amidst the parting cloudlets. Rick heard a faint wailing noise and saw tiny, rubbery hands scrabbling up from black tar between the cobbles. Thousands of tiny hands, like those little soft-toed newts you might find under a damp stone. The stone wobbled, the fingers, straining to find a way out, endlessly pinched and smashed only to take shape and scrabble again. Petrus stepped aside with an air of gloom, the mist around his bare feet soft, white, and yielding. He had no toenails, no calluses, no protection against anything. He was completely vulnerable, yet while sad, he was unafraid. Watching Rick's soul unraveling.

Meph scraped a claw across the translucent screen, and it screeched softly in protest. The demon snickered and lashed his tail. At least it looked like... Rick couldn't help but stare. The demon had a snake's tail up its ass, the head hovering about its ankles. It looked up at Rick and hissed.

The demon's black claws spread out abruptly (Rick couldn't help thinking: "Jazz hands!") and opened up a view-screen, wide enough to recognize himself as a ten-year-old boy onscreen, remembered the moment, although not the point of view from the top of the marble lion's back, by the library stairs. He wore the Danes Academy navy-blue slacks and hideous sweater vest with the red-and-white chevron V-neck. An itchy white polyester-blend shirt and a clip-on tie. His nose had a red welt across the bridge (broken again) which he'd tried to dress with an x of that library strapping tape with the threads in it. He was trying not to cry, trying to reassemble the pages of a notebook that had been torn and stomped and shredded and spat on.

He already read a lot and had a rather dramatic vocabulary. He gritted, "I'd sell my soul to see you rot in hell, you monstrous spawn of Satan." Who had destroyed his notebook? The other kids called him Jeremy. Both he and Rick had been admitted to the school as hardship cases, himself because Martha knew someone, Jeremy because the school took in a few kids with real intellectual potential. This kid had been just his size, with hard, angry brown eyes and a cold smile. But he could have been any number in a string of grinning, stupid, spoiled... philistines. Scared little boys, big enough or fast enough or just plain mean enough to gang up and make him suffer. Just because they could. This time, Rick had almost deserved it – written a snotty limerick. Rick stared at his young self leaning against the lion in misery, and the hurt and rage rose up in him, fresh and raw. It's a strange thing to feel an emotion but not be able to feel the body that ought to be generating it.

"I was just a kid."

Here Petrus made an interesting point. "You can put real estate up to the market then withdraw it from sale."

Rick was surprised. "What? Oh. Yeah!"

Mephistopheles rolled his bloodshot golden eyes. "All right. That was lame. Age of consent, blah blah blah. You couldn't sell something you didn't properly own yet." He licked a fang with his long tongue. There were some sort of little crustaceans latched to the forked tip, like those creepy fish parasites... Meph leaned his weight on one hip, thinking. Smirked. "How about... THIS!" Jazz hands again.

Rick's life did the thing everyone talks about, and which he'd sort of been waiting for:

* * *

**RICK CASTLE: His Life, Flashing Before His Eyes:**

• Being a tiny ball of new cells. Floating in the dark and red, thoughtlessly thinking, "Here. This one." and then, 34-ish weeks later, "Oh, hello."

• His birth, at a clinic in Hell's Kitchen, born too soon (and now he might be dying too soon as well), already in a hurry, the nurse running to get a doctor and coming back to find Martha with him in her arms... then crying in an incubator while they did mysterious things to his mother. And crying, missing the one who'd lived there inside her with him, but wasn't there anymore.

• Six months old, wailing hungrily at an audition, his mother wheeling him out of the theater in humiliation and sitting down in tears on the front steps of the theater to nurse him...

• A toddler, walking in on a drunken nanny who'd set the couch on fire with her cigarette, pouring 'water' on her, a whoosh of blue, almost invisible flame, being thrown across the room to bang his forehead on the TV...

• A preschooler, already knowing his ABCs, fighting with a boy named Michael over the shoelace practice toy... Michael sliding the knotted string around the neck of a kitten and stringing it up on the jungle gym, laughing...

• His fourth birthday party, Michael screaming at him over cupcakes, and a short, blurry time later, waking up from a nap to find something wrapped around his neck...

• A kindergartener, struggling to write his thoughts down with a stupid fat red-barreled pencil that only made his fingers plod, circle time stealing the story away...

• A first grader, his first crush, a sweet little red-haired girl who thought he was cute and gave him a Valentine...

• His sixth summer, at sleep-away camp on a lake, going fishing and watching helplessly as the trout gasped and died in a bucket of warm water on the dock. The counselor screaming in his face: "MAN UP. They're fish. They can't feel anything."

• His seventh autumn, missing six weeks of school with one illness after another, reading voraciously. Martha stuck at home with him, unable to find work or a sitter. The power being turned off, Halloween by candlelight, all the neighborhood kids sitting there in the dark living room with them, Martha telling ghost stories because she had no candy to give out...

• His seventh winter: Going back to school to find that he was ahead instead of behind, and all the kids either calling him weird or asking him to help with spelling...

• His seventh spring, getting into a fistfight at PS 47 with a round-headed boy named Jeremy who was plucking the feathers off a live pigeon he'd snared under the bleachers. Knocking Jeremy into a wall, both of them being expelled. Jeremy oddly familiar, smirking as he was led away from the principal's office by his foster mom... Martha picking him up from school, furiously proud...

• His eighth Christmas, him at boarding school, eating cafeteria Christmas dinner with the four other kids who couldn't go home either, reading "A Christmas Carol," and wishing a ghost would fly in and carry him out the window. His mother instead, bustling in through the door with a new husband in tow, laughing and warm and smelling of hot buttered rum, taking him home for a whole week of ice skating and new books and a trip to the magic shop...

• His ninth July Fourth, Martha and new, second husband getting into a roaring fight about nothing while the fireworks went off overhead, and him with his hands over his ears even though he loved explosions...

• His fifth grade teacher, the delectable Mrs. Watson, who loved Sherlock Holmes (yes, really!). She insisted on the onerous rainy day Social Dance classes that taught him to conquer the sweat and terror that is the Foxtrot... as danced with Noelle, the chubby girl with freckles who not-so-secretly adored him. (He gave her a rock. She still has it. She now writes steamy fan-fiction, but thank God it's about sparkly vampires instead of him.)

• His eleventh summer: reading Casino Royale in the library, looking across the room at the librarian and wondering if she might actually be a secret agent, as a tall, graying janitor sweeps past him, barely noticed, with a wink and a grin...

• His eleventh Autumn: lighting a bonfire in front of the school office because it was the Fifth of November, and getting expelled because "What do you think this is? ENGLAND?"

• His seventeenth July Fourth, on location with his mother on a movie shoot. It was a sword-and-sorcery epic; she was playing the duplicitous queen (better that than the fawning nanny) and he'd gotten work as an extra, since he was a fencer and fit the "Second Teen In Muddy Rags, With Sword" requirement. He'd made friends with "First Teen in Muddy Rags, with Spear", a friendly, dreadlocked-and-bearded, brown-eyed kid named Declan Connor who coached him on his Irish accent. Connor's American accents – New York, Georgia, Texas, California Valley Girl – were all perfect, and he mimicked Rick's voice with amazing accuracy. Martha stayed on at the shoot site for her own scenes. Connor took the bus back to town and begged Rick to meet up for a visit, promising him good times, 'brilliant craic' and pretty girls. Rick bought a used bike and rolled around the countryside solo for a week. July 4 found him alone and homesick, lighting illegal fireworks in a grassy Irish field full of gassy Irish cows and being collared by the farmer: "What the feck do ya t'ink this is? Feckin' AMERICA?" Rick put on his best North Dublin accent, introducing himself as one Paul Hewson. Sang "Bad" from U2's Unforgettable Fire a capella (perfectly, out of sheer terror) and to this day, your man's down at the pub, his watery old eyes swimming behind bottle-thick glasses, telling his tale about "The Time I Caught Bono Settin' Off Fireworks in My Bull Paddock Like a Feckin' Eejit."

When Rick got to Dublin two days later, he met up with Connor. Connor had a girlfriend, Rosie, who was a bit older, had exquisite legs, and was struggling through pre-med. She'd acted as an extra in the movie with them, and since it was non-union, assisted with makeup as well. Rick hung out with them all day, pub-crawling along the Bloom's Day trail. After a fish-and-chips dinner, they met up with four buskers on Grafton Street. From there, they all went to a squat house, played some music, drank too much, and one of them suggested he try a little snort of H. Connor said, "Yeh know, it's legal here. Perfectly safe."

Already drunk, Rick still had the presence of mind to say "No. I don't wanna mix it with booze." Connor and the tambourine player held him down, and Connor's girlfriend, Rosie, stuffed some in his nose and made him breathe it in. He struggled, but there it was, bliss blossoming through his sinuses and into his brain. It was the first, and only, night of his life that he just did not give a damn about anything. It was heavenly wonderment. In hazy, comfortable peace, he never consciously knew that his heart stopped beating for about 30 seconds before it lazily resumed out of habit. (At this point, Rick, watching himself, said, "Whoa," and Petrus said, "I know. You were stupid.")

Passed out, Connor and Rosie beat him just for fun. The buskers freaked out and tried to stop them, but Connor had turned into something savage and terrifying, and they all scattered like rabbits. Rosie slashed Rick's arm with a razor blade (missing an artery), and together with Connor, robbed him blind. There was no reason he should have survived, except that his heart rate was so low his body didn't bother to bleed out. When he came to, he stumbled out the window they'd clambered in, and he walked for a while, eventually collapsing next to the bronze statue of Molly Malone. A Gardai found him and got him to the hospital. He had to reach the movie production company to contact Martha. She left early, picked him up, cleaned up the mess with the lost passport, and got him home to New York. She didn't speak to him for a week, was replaced by Jean Marsh on the production, and her scenery-chewing brilliance wound up on the cutting room floor. His first novel, In A Hail of Bullets, was about a heroin smuggler who tries to go straight and winds up on everyone's bad side. It hit the best seller list, and out of the 23 people who quit doing or dealing because of his blistering attack on the drug trade, 5 wrote thank you letters. One, in an unmarked envelope from Ireland, contained his stolen passport.

The images came faster and faster, not necessarily in experiential order or order of importance, but a sort of progressive logic, vaguely held together in themes: every girl he kissed just because he could; the one and only time he cheated in school; his first sex, with Jocelyn, whom he thought he loved even though she just thought he was cute and really didn't understand his jokes and only read Sweet Valley High; the time he went to a party with one girl and left with another; the time he didn't have enough money for lunch or the subway, did a dine-and-dash, punched the busboy who chased him down, and jumped the turnstile; the time his friend Alan's girlfriend came on to him and he let her; the time he came on to Jim's girlfriend and she let him; the girl he kept seeing because he was horny and she liked to put out, even though he loved someone else; the "borrowed" motorcycle and the "misplaced" incredibly ugly sweater his great-aunt sent him and the "lost" virginity and the "found" money that occasionally showed up when he least expected it...

The sheer mundanity of his life was exhausting, just like anybody's. Sacred and profane, a mix of food binges, hot showers, cold showers, awkward medical moments, reading the entire World Book Encyclopedia through the 1986 yearbook in one endlessly rainy month, physics tests, birthday parties, fencing matches, first dates, last calls and bathroom breaks when he never bothered to go back to class, coffees drunk, graduations, jobs applied for, skinny dipping, laughing too hard, and people who just thought he was too weird. Vowing over and over that he'd never let anyone see him cry, breaking that vow once in a while. Yearbook inscriptions: "Keep writing, Rick." "You have a great smile. Don't ever change!" "Call me over the summer!" The first time he skydived, target practice, landing his first good punch, orgasms fired (some solo, some with company), watching Rocky Horror for the first time and wondering how it felt to wear stockings, food poisoning from the time he dumpster dived with an idiot urban forager, blaming hangovers on the flu, and showing up to work with the flu because "Rent is DUE, Ricky." Dances and kisses and and his first love (though of course not his first heartbreak). Every single time he got fired from a job he hated anyway. His first real love, Kyra, two years together, gone in a flash. Suddenly he's 22, just getting his BA in political science (because that's what he likes researching at the time), Meredith's pregnant and it's publish-or-perish because if he can't find a publisher, the baby goes.

Holding Alexis, still trying to talk Meredith into nursing because he'd read so much... her folding her arms over beautiful, round, milk-swollen breasts and shaking her head painfully: "I've done my part, Ricky. Now it's your turn."

Holding Alexis, her wide blue eyes fixing on his face with that strange, wise recognition and trust. His mother's voice over his shoulder, quiet and thrumming with pride: "She's an old soul."

"I hope she'll teach me something new," Rick had replied.

Writing, and reading. Book after book after book after book after book. Sitting under a redwood tree in California. Alexis is five years old, with a bandage on her skinny knee, playing cat's cradle. He's picking her up on her last day of Vacation Bible Camp. It was literally his last resort. He had a series of Northern California and Oregon book signings, Meredith was busy on location (and screwing her director), Martha was working in Europe, and it seemed every option had just fallen through. So at the last minute he had basically entrusted Alexis to a bunch of holy rollers who, he later came to realize, actually spoke in tongues. At least they didn't mess around with rattlers. "This is Jacob's Ladder," Alexis says, holding it up. "Jacob wrestled with an angel."

"Did he hit him with a ladder, too?"

Alexis sticks out her tongue at him, and they laugh together. They fly home, she falls asleep on the plane, he carries her out to the taxi.

Alexis dances on the lid of the grand piano in a purple tutu as Martha plays and sings, "Tea for Two". Alexis blows up her science fair volcano with a little too much baking soda. Alexis beats him at Laser Tag. Alexis in a cage, in Paris, climbing out, terrified, clinging to him, both of them shaking, as his father covers their escape with gunfire. Alexis sound asleep, half-naked on the couch, wedged under her boyfriend Pi (who, Rick could see, knew too much about smuggling exotic 'fruit' out of Costa Rica, and who didn't have the grace or sense to cover her up with a throw as she slept trusting in his arms).

Alexis. He would never see her come into her career, maybe marry, maybe have children, buy a house, rescue her from doing something incredibly stupid, blossom into maturity, save the world. All the things he knew she could do, greyed out in a dwindling rectangle.

He stared at the murder board. _His_ murder board.

He said, "There's something missing. _Someone_..."

Beckett.

The first time he saw her was at his first book signing. He was, on his publicist Paula's insistence, wearing tight jeans, a T, leather jacket, aviator shades. He was opening for Patterson, who had very kindly grandfathered him in (privately, in payment for that bet about stealing the police horse). Rick was 20. Little Katie Beckett was twelve, scrawny and shy in braces, her never-dyed hair hanging in waves of chocolate brown down her back. Johanna was a pretty brunette in her late 30s, come straight from work, in a soft grey tweed wool suit. Katie was over in the YA section, absorbed in a Nancy Drew, chewing on a wisp of her hair. She was only a peripheral blur, just a little girl that his conscious mind didn't even register.

Paula introduced Rick as a "bright new star on the crime fiction horizon." He was given polite applause, stood up, pretended to be even more nervous than he was, got a sympathetic laugh. Waved over at Patterson. "I'd like to thank my friend Pat Jameson, I mean Patter- James Patterson, for this opp- chance to, uh, ok, I'll just start then. This is, uh, the first page of of "In a Hail of Bullets."

_"Michael's heart stopped beating maybe eight minutes after he snorted the heroin. It was his very first time. He was already drunk; Declan pulled out a vial of powder, laid a line on a little mirror, snorted it through a straw. Did it again, offered to Michael. Michael had already tried coke, liked it all right, wanted to be sociable. He took a deep snort, and what came back through his sinuses was not familiar, but blew coke right out of the race for Favorite Thing Ever. There was no buzz down the back of his sinuses, but a bitter yet less astringent taste. The feel? Just rolling fog, coming in slowly. He smiled. "What is this stuff?"_

_Kelly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, her shaggy hair nearly hiding her green eyes. "It's __**H**__, Michael."_

_Being American, he didn't quite understand her. "Haitch?"_

_"Heroin, ya dumb fuck," grinned Declan. "Afghanistan's finest." He sat back in the recliner and sighed._

_"Your accent's so cute, Kelly," Michael grinned. "New Yorkers talk through our noses too much. New Yorkers, we're not usually so friendly as me. I. Am."_

_Michael was already feeling sleepy. His head sort of wanted to be on his own shoulder for a while. He leaned back in Kelly's skinny, needle-tracked arms, fading in and out, smiling faintly. A bliss rolled over him, comforted him, pillowed him, buoyed him. Nothing hurt. No fear. No shame. The loneliness and longing and hollow ache... for the first time in his memory... gone. Kelly extricated herself and sat back to watch the fun, taking a sip out of the vodka bottle. After a while, Michael forgot all about the job of breathing, and being at an odd angle, he rolled off the filthy couch. His chest and jaw hit the coffee table on the way down, and he landed hard on the floor, stone dead. The other squatters laughed. They were all high, too, and didn't notice the blue-gray tinge of apoxia around his slack mouth, under his fingernails._

_It must have been the shock of the fall that restarted his heart. Somewhere underneath it all a little rush of adrenaline pulled him through, made him aware when they beat him, stole his wallet and passport and even his jacket. Although it didn't actually hurt until he woke up a second time, sometime around four a.m., lying alone in a boarded up house, soaked in a pool of his own urine._

_He sat up, dazed, and made it as far as all fours. He hurled, got up, and went for the sink. Of course the water had been turned off for months, maybe years. He found the boarded window through which he'd clambered with his new-found friends the night before. In the predawn light, North Dublin's streets were empty save for a few delivery trucks._

_"Cockles and mussels, my ass."_

_He started down the street in search of a phone booth. He was gonna have to call the consulate. Worse, he was gonna have to call his mother._

* * *

The audience smiled or nodded in all the right places. They cringed in all the right places. At the end, they applauded, and the applause wasn't just polite. In the corner of her Johanna Beckett's eye, the tween girl reading the Nancy Drew book glanced up, annoyed, and went back to it. Katie wouldn't read "In a Hail of Bullets" for a two years yet, and it was that gritty, ugly, angry, life-affirming, and oddly fun book Johanna handed to her when it was time to have The Talk About The War On Drugs.

Patterson sold ten cases of books that night. Rick sold a shocking, gratifying, exhilarating thirty copies of his very first book. Martha had bought the first two. Meredith had given one to her folks. Patterson bought the fourth, but Rick dismissed that as good manners since he'd already read the second draft. The next was bought by a tall old man with a long white beard, in a fedora and tinted glasses that hid most of his face. The old man had shaken Rick's hand with a surprisingly firm grip and grunted, "Good job." Johanna Beckett bought the sixth copy he sold. Of this, his first book.

When Black Pawn published his second book nine months later, Johanna bought the twenty-seventh copy. She bought the thirty-fourth copy of his third book, then skipped a few signings. She came back with her punky, purple-haired, 17-year-old, suddenly-much-taller daughter for the tenth copy of the seventh book: "Who shall I make this out to?"

"Katie. No, Kate. Make it Kate."

He teased the girl gently, as he would his own daughter. "Make it Kate. Sincerely, Richard Castle."

And then Johanna didn't come anymore.

_Kate_.

He saw her standing in line, just a glance. Twenty years old, thin as rail and white as a sheet, dyed black hair pulled back in a severe bun, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, wearing black and charcoal gray, holding a coffee cup and a pre-purchased copy of that year's newest book, "Hell Hath No Fury". Walking with Gina, he'd hurried past Kate on their way into the bookstore. Kate had barely caught his eye, and he knew he was seeing a reconstructed memory, the kind a witness thinks they see when all they know is a description of what happened. Only Kate had never told him... this. How she'd waited in line for over an hour, how he'd arrived in a flurry of stupid... stupidity, how she'd left at the last minute before even approaching him, thrown her coffee cup in the trash, stood there looking like she was going to throw the book in too. How she'd stared at him, her lips a thin, white line, and he'd paused a moment signing someone else's chest, somehow feeling her eyes boring into him. How she'd turned and walked away, disgusted, and he saw a sick defeat in the line of her bony shoulders. How she'd gone home and read the book in spite of herself, trying to kill the thoughts racing in her head, better than any drug could, even though the book itself kind of sucked. How she'd read about a group of silly, pretty girls dancing naked and riding horses bareback in the moonlight, inventing magical rituals to make their lives feel like they had meaning. How she'd cried with frustrated incomprehension that someone who understood her so well on paper could be so boorish and shallow in person.

Kate. He looked up at his murder board. How many murders had he helped her solve? He stood there, rearranging them by type: accidental death, premeditated, gang-related, revenge. Motive. Method. Opportunity.

"Who's trying to kill me?" He glanced over at Petrus and Meph. They were sitting at a little table, playing Scrabble. Petrus looked over at him and shrugged.

Meph snorted. "Who isn't?" He was laying out tiles, delicately, with the tips of his claws.

Petrus said, "Genqux isn't a word."

"It is now. Triple word score, played on the x... that's... 79 points. Your turn."

Castle looked again at his timeline.

"Kate," he whispered, as if she was standing right beside him. "The timeline's wrong. The story..."

He heard her voice in his mind. "NO. This is NOT how it ends. This... RICK? THIS IS NOT HOW IT ENDS." She was standing on an embankment in her wedding dress, staring at him through the flames of a burning car. His burning car.

What would Beckett do? Do that. He did it. He charged over to the table and rammed it up sideways. It slammed against the pearly gates, they groaned and crackled, the Scrabble tiles flying and, for some reason, safety glass too. Heaven has a windshield? Petrus and Meph stood aghast.

Meph said, "What the fuck."

Petrus ran a hand across his bald pate. "What, are you trying to kill me?"

Kate's angry voice echoed in Rick's mind, a voice that could make a demon turn tail and run. And Rick cried it out loud. "This is my life. MY LIFE." He turned back to the murder board. Story of his life. Storyboard. Whatever.

He frantically rearranged tiles of information like the index cards he still occasionally used to organize his thoughts, had used years before outlining software made his writing so much easier. He banged on the gray areas until they they gave up links, pictures, words. The screen/wings vibrated like a hummingbird's. Meph came close and tried to stop him, Rick pulled a lightsaber out of nowhere and slashed off one of Meph's horns, which fell away in a smoking hiss. Meph went after it and put it back on, welding it into place with a red crackle of lightning. "That was uncalled for."

Rick said, "I officially change this ending from murder mystery to science fiction." He raised the light saber again.

Meph said, "Where did you get that? You're not even wearing any pants."

Rick grinned. "I dunno. Where'd you get your snake?"

Mephistopheles tried to look backwards down his own ass. "Nobody said anything about no mistakes in hell."

Rick laughed, gesturing wildly at the board, which nimbly dodged the "whooomm" of the light saber. "This... You said it yourself. Time doesn't matter here. And I'm seeing these threads... They're not threads, they're strings. I only have a poor layman's understanding of string theory but it's enough to weave a ladder out of, between the fingers of heaven and earth. Jacob's ladder. The moment between a pulse and a wave. The obfuscation of a name, an identity you can't keep straight. This is a storyboard. And I'm a writer. This is my story. And I'm telling you both. It doesn't end here." He pointed to the frame with the car, burning merrily away, the lovely bride weeping at the top of the embankment. _"Too. Soon."_

He couldn't feel his fingers, and the line was nebulous, but he dragged at it anyway, and it extended, uncoiling like DNA, all the way to the end of the board. "Not till here. I am NOT leaving Kate. It's her story, it's my story, it's our story, and it cannot end with me burning to death in a car."

Mephistopheles growled, "That's not how it works around here."

"Well guess what, Meph? 'Here' isn't real. You're not real. You're a construct. You're straight out of a Heironymous Bosch painting, you're second fiddle to a self-absorbed, buzzkill evil overlord, and my girlfriend wears higher heels than yours on her fucking day off."

Mephistopheles' mouth opened wide in shock. Inside his mouth, the parasites on his tongue also dropped their jaws. And inside that... yeah, it just kept on going, smaller and smaller suckers in smaller and smaller mouths. For a hypnotic moment, Rick thought he was going to fall in, and Meph saw his chance, raised his red, webbed claws, ready to finish things. Or start them. But it was Rick's story now, and he was stickin' to it.

Rick said mildly, "Go home, Mephistopheles. You're done here."

And with a shrug and a little poof of sulphur, Meph was gone.

Petrus looked up at Rick, rather anxiously. "I don't know about mistakes, _per se_." He gestured at the murder board. The story board. The hovering dove of memory. He continued, "but that thing's gonna blow up in your face in, uh, no time."

"Right."

Rick was looking at the little movie, himself in the Mercedes, eating up the miles between the City and the Hamptons. Driving through bucolic land, much of it old farms and estates. He loved back roads and obscure local stories, enjoyed history and folklore and tidbits of gossip. So he had a good sense of the area around him. He'd noticed the Escalade fifteen miles back; sometimes closer and sometimes more distant. Once he stopped, it passed him, and then it pulled out behind him again, having been concealed amongst other cars at a seasonal cherry stand. He should have told Beckett he was being followed. He did the next best thing, because just for once he wanted her to have a good day. He didn't want to worry her. He speed-dialed 911: better safe than sorry on this of all days.

"My name is Richard Castle. I'm at risk for abduction and am being followed by a black Escalade. The license plate is Virginian. The numbers have probably been altered, but..." he struggled to keep them straight, reading them backwards and at a distance in the rear view mirror. "My location is approximately..." He went on, giving the details. Boy, were Ryan and Espo gonna be pissed that he called the locals. The dispatcher said, "Stay calm, sir, and I suggest you continue to a location in public. There's a country store half a mile ahead of you. Stay with your car if at all possible, and lock your doors."

Then he called Kate. He watched himself calling her, telling her he loved her. She said "I love you." He smiled, and watched himself smile.

The traces of an overgrown, ancient house foundation caught the corner of his eye, three hundred feet off, in the woods, draped with creepers. He'd noticed and daydreamed about it many a time on the road back and forth. Even done some research, used it as a setting for one of his Claire Sainte Victoire romance novels. He smiled. A romance novel. Time to write another one.

The Cadillac was back on his tail again. Back in his tale. Growing closer.

"Well," Rick said. "Time to wrestle the angel again."

He looked over from the murder board to find Petrus, only Petrus didn't look like Petrus anymore. She looked like a real angel, like his Kate, glowing in tank top, yoga pants and sneakers, hair in a messy ponytail. There was a pulse of power around her, better than a halo, better than wings.

"You're gonna have to fight this, Castle," she grinned, and raised her hands in a Krav Maga attack stance. "Ready?"

Rick grinned. "Always."

He closed his eyes, and his opponent was on him.

POW. The airbag inflated and smacked Rick, hard, in the nose. Broken again. His face exploded in pain. The car flew end-over-end off the embankment, hovered almost comically if you were in a Dukes of Hazard episode, then dropped like a cartoon piano. The windshield hit a tree branch that punched a hole right through, deflating the bag and barely missing Rick's right eye. To his shock, the car landed on its passenger side, rocked a tad, then fell back down onto its wheels. He was gonna feel that one in his back, and his left ankle was twisted fiercely by the car's crumpling frame as it hit rock underneath. Dazed, peering through blood, Rick glanced up at the roadside, twenty feet above him. He saw the Cadillac backing up to stop at the gravel curb, a tall man and a stacked woman hesitating, looking down at him. He popped the trunk of the Mercedes, unbuckled his seat belt, and scrambled out on the passenger side, limping toward the trunk on a probably-broken ankle.

Who brings a gun to a wedding?

Someone with enemies. Someone smart and obsessive with details. Someone who likes to plan things. Someone who thinks about contingencies. Someone with resources. Someone who knows people who can get things done.

You thought I was going to say Richard Castle, didn't you?

Haha. Who's writing this thing, anyway?

***  
End of Chapter 1.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dressed up like a car crash  
Your wheels are turning but you're upside down  
You say when he hits you, you don't mind  
Because when he hurts you, you feel alive  
Hey babe, is that what it is_

_Stay: Far Away, So Close - U2 _

_Previously: _

_Who brings a gun to a wedding?  
Someone with enemies. Someone who likes to plan things. Someone who thinks about contingencies. Someone with resources. Someone who knows people who can get things done.  
You thought I was going to say Richard Castle, didn't you?  
Haha. Who's writing this thing, anyway? _

***  
Rick looked up at the man standing at the top of the embankment. The man wielded a 32, small enough to conceal, big enough to do serious damage. His face, even his stance, was eerily like Rick's own, and he was dressed for a wedding. Specifically, Rick's wedding. The tux, shirt and tie matched perfectly, and Rick suspected that once the angle changed, even the shoes would match his own as well.

The man spoke in a voice nothing like his own though: slightly higher, with a Bronx accent. "_There are two kinds of folks who sit around thinking how to kill people: Psychopaths, and mystery writers. I'm the kind that pays better. Who am I?"_

Rick glared up at him. "Well, seeing that you have a pile of offshore accounts that you shuffle around like a deck of cards, I'm guessing you're a psychopath, and my twin brother."

The mystery man froze. He hadn't expected that.

"Don't feel too bad," Rick said. "I only just figured it out."

"This isn't the way I want this story to end, _Rodgers_."

"You and me both, _Tyson_." Rick had grabbed a couple of emergency flares out of his kit. "You're not taking me anywhere. And I'm keeping my goddamn face right where it belongs."

Jerry Tyson fired a warning shot down, close enough to be unnerving. It hit the Mercedes' back windshield, which shattered obligingly. (_Note to self: Upgrade to bulletproof glass in cars._)

"Don't make this any harder on us than it has to be."

"Jerry. Little brother o'Mine? What did Kelly do to your face this time?"

Kelly shifted on her tall heels. "We did try to slow things down. If you hadn't rushed the wedding, he'd have turned out a lot better. There's still some swelling. We can hide that with simulated car wreck injuries."

"Kate will figure it out before you..."

"But Rick, this is a chance for us to perfect our family resemblance. Kate will love the new you."

Rick lit one of the flares, tossing the cap into a nearby bush (although normally he hated littering) and held it like a cudgel. He squinted through blood-seep at his brother, who was edging down the embankment toward him. The walk was pretty close to Rick's. And although Jerry was an inch or so shorter than Rick, he'd bulked up. His hair was styled just so. And his face... Kelly (formerly Rosie, who'd put herself through medical school back in Ireland by stealing drugs from pharmacies and selling them) had definitely rearranged it. Rick and Jerry were hardly doppelgangers, but the family resemblance was much stronger between them now. "On closer inspection, I think the nostrils need serious revision, Kelly."

Kelly huffed. "Get in line. Those nostrils have caused a lot of fan artists no end of trouble."

"Jerry, I don't think the ruggedly handsome gene is playing out so well for you." Kelly had done good work. Yet Jerry still looked a little... off. Rick added, "I'm confused. Were you planning to take my place at the wedding? Looks like you just took the stitches out."

Tyson was getting too close, maybe twenty feet away. He'd matched Rick's tux nicely. Had it tailored. Maybe even bought it at the same shop. His smooth soles slipped on the muddy embankment, and he lost balance, skidding a little on his hip. Both tuxes were ruined now, Rick's with blood and falling flare detritus, Jerry's with mud and leaves clinging to the trousers.

Rick lit the second flare, tamped the lid into the ground, leaving a clear footprint with the plastic cylinder in the middle. A clear sign, he hoped, that he'd survived the crash. In case the police showed up too late.

"Also," Rick added. "I think my nose is broken again." He held up the flares to see Jerry's face better. Their light glowed a raw magenta among the cool tree shadows. Tyson's face looked like his own, only made out of hamburger. "You'll never catch up. You sad, unbroken-nosed man."

Kelly waved down cheerfully from the top bank. "I'll set you up with a few painkillers. You'll barely feel a thing." She held up a hypodermic.

Rick said pleasantly, "Hey, _Rosie_. Is that you? From Dublin?"

She reverted to the Irish accent he remembered from their teens. "Yeh. How'd you tell?"  
"The ankles. They're the only thing you haven't changed, but either way they're still drop-dead gorgeous. You ever get licensed?"

She glared daggers at him. "It's not my fault the board didn't appreciate innovation."

"Maybe they didn't appreciate that you're a raving LOONY," cried Rick.

Tyson had the gun trained on him. "You know, I really don't need anything but your face," he said speculatively.

Rick shook his head. "Your ears are all wrong. You have those dangly earlobes. Damn cute, though. Beckett tells me that the whorls of the ear are impossible to fake, by the way. The CIA even uses them to identify body doubles... Plus, she really loves my enormous and talented... hands."

"Are you baiting me?" The triple killer was scowling, but his voice was as pleasant as Rick's.

"Sure. Family trait. We all do it. You should see Alexis playing Airsoft."

Tyson smiled icily. "That's the plan."

Rick swallowed that ice, the hard, cold anger growing in him. "And you'll write crime stories under my name. True crime stories."

"You can do the ghost writing. To my specs."

"Really? And you'll make little Tyson babies with my unsuspecting wife? You got the pond scum off our gene pool."

"Little _Rogers_ babies," Jerry corrected. "I know everything about you, Rick." He grinned, and added in a perfect Dublin accent, "And it seems actin' runs in the feckin' family."

"Thievery doesn't. You dosed me with heroin and stole my passport."

"And I've been stealing – no, claiming your identity ever since. A few offshore bank accounts will trace back to you at some point. I'll sprinkle a little of your DNA around a usable length of green and white rope. And then we'll all disappear without a trace. You and your family will die slowly, and Kelly and I will relax on a nice tropical beach with all the meat we can slice."

"Kate will never let you get that far."

Tyson chuckled. "We'll let her think you're dead for awhile. Kidnap and hold you. Maybe send her a few dispensable bits, get her desperate."

Rick shrugged off the sickness he felt inside. He understood the game now. "Yeah, yeah, talking criminal, rule the world, blah blah blah."

Jerry glared. "Don't interrupt. Kelly's an artist at this. For a while, Kate will be able to tell us apart. But the lines will blur, and as the stitches heal... she'll stop caring."

Rick hid his disgust and horror under false cheer. "You have no idea how stubborn that woman can be."

Tyson smiled. His imitation of Rick was chillingly accurate: "Kate. You are the most maddening, challenging, remarkable woman..." His eyes narrowed. "You wore her down. So will I."

The blood drained out of Castle's face. _Kate's apartment was bugged, too?_ He set his horror and rage aside. _Of course it calm. You will not win this by losing your cool._ "And mother? She'll know in a heartbeat."

Tyson snapped, "She wanted _me_, you know. She wanted to keep me, and leave you with the agency. I have our father's brown eyes. His earlobes."

Rick froze. Did their father know? Had he known about Jerry Tyson all along? That didn't make much sense. "I dunno. I think I'm the cute one and you're the funny one."

Tyson coughed.

Rick said, "I don't suppose you're gonna cover your mouth."

Tyson shook his head, still fighting for breath. Kelly called down, "You all right there, honey?"

Rick said, "That's a hell of a cough. What happened, you get pushed in the drink by your big brother? I _am_ the oldest, you know."

Tyson wheezed, "That's bullshit. I came out first." He holstered his gun, pulled out a handkerchief, spat green into it. Months later, Tyson hadn't completely shaken pneumonia, despite whatever antibiotics Kelly had pumped him with. Rick cataloged that as a weak spot.

"Oh, I don't think so. I shoved ahead as usual. You came out blue. Mother was hemorrhaging. They thought you were dead. The clinic took us to the emergency room. They sold you to pay for the medical costs. Mother never even knew you took your first breath." He made this all up, based on what he sort-of-remembered from his flashback. It was logical, but he had no idea whether it was really true. What the hell had happened when they were born?

Tyson's eyebrows would have shot up a little if he'd been able to move them at all. His hairline did something twitchy, though.

Rick cocked his head. "You didn't wind up with CP, but brain damage might explain the little psychotic episodes." His ankle was throbbing in pain, the adrenaline fading a bit from the crash. Now he felt a strange sense of calm in the face – haha, face – of his fraternal twin brother. Despite Jerry's gun trained on him, Rick was trying to walk that fine line of stretching patience without breaking it. Driving Kate crazy had, oddly, prepared him well to treat with crazy people.

Jerry snickered. "I'm not a psychopath. I'm a sociopath. You're getting sloppy."

"Odd, you and I are usually so obsessive about researching the details..."

Tyson lunged at him. Rick swiped at him with both flares, a hot, red, Mephistophelian arc. Tyson backed off, grinning. "Another family trait. We like to do things with... flare."

This is the weird part. For a moment Rick remembered Declan, the hairy, funny kid friend he'd made on-set in Ireland. The one who got his jokes, made him laugh, almost felt like a new-found brother. And here, Castle and Tyson – or whatever the hell his name was – both chuckled, genuinely amused. Rick smiled at him, because it was something he himself would have said. "You're right. It really doesn't have to go this way." And then he was hit by sadness, because there was no way this was gonna have a happy ending for anyone involved. Declan had won his trust and nearly killed him. Was here to finish the job, with a vengeance.

It should have been the opposite, but a tiny, weary, shocked part of him let his guard down, just enough. Tyson's eyes went dead as a snake's, and he leaped at Rick. Rick, with his busted ankle, was already off balance, leaning his hip against the bumper. Tyson had him on the ground, on his back. One of the flares went flying under the car. Rick panicked a moment, expecting it to blow, but as he glanced over he saw the red flame somehow disappear down into some kind of hole. The undercarriage of the Mercedes was partly hidden in dead leaves and tall, weedy spring grasses. But from his back on the ground, he saw a faint, pink glimmer reflecting on the muffler.

With his foot on Rick's chest, Tyson shot his opponent in the right wrist at close range. Third carpal shattered, Rick's hand reflexively opened, dropping the second flare. The flare landed in more leaves near the tailpipe, unimpeded by the dampness but now sending up pale gray, steamy smoke. Rick lay a moment, stunned with pain, suddenly limp. He closed his eyes, trying to master himself, catching his breath. He clamped his hand around his wrist, trying to stem the blood flow. FUCK, it hurt. How had he ever written so blithely about being shot? "So much for research," he winced. Research didn't mean shit. He gritted, "I should've shot myself just a little bit years ago."

"We can work on asphyxiation and knife play, too. Add some depth to your storytelling."

"This is gonna slow the ghost-writing down a little, Jerry."

Tyson snickered. "You can dictate. You love the sound of your own voice so much."

Rick thought of Beckett and the bullet that had grazed her heart. Realized it had been his voice that kept her from leaving altogether, leaving the pain behind. He thought it again, cradling her in the cemetery, pleading with her soul not to leave her body: _"I love you, Kate. I love you."_ And her answering voice in his mind, from just a minute or two ago, separated by a lifetime of near misses: _"I love you."_

Seeing a moment of pure peace in Rick's face, Tyson called up to Kelly. "I think he's out."

One of the first rules of not getting murdered: If you let a kidnapper move you to a new location, you're much more likely to die. Rick decided to go limp and focus on his breathing, just to let himself rest and recover a moment. Tyson raised a fist to punch Rick, who didn't react, his eyes being closed. Kelly admonished, "Not the face, you're both banged up enough already. Besides, he'll be dead weight as it is, getting him up the cliff to the car."

Tyson sighed and slipped his gun into a shoulder holster under his tux jacket. "Come down and help me carry him."

"I'm wearing heels."

"How many times have I told you to wear shoes you can walk in?"

"Hold on. I'll get the rope."

She opened the Escalade's rear passenger door.

Tyson said, "Sling the rope over the grip handle..."

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "I _know_. Pulley. How many times have we done this?"

Tyson chuckled. "Twenty-three, just counting the strangulations. We're not strangling him."

Kelly called down blithely. "Not yet, anyway... Ready?" She secured her end, then tossed the coil down to Tyson. He walked a few steps away from Rick to catch it.

Rick lay still, watching Tyson through his eyelashes, fighting down revulsion and panic. Tyson was returning to him, pausing a moment to look down at the green and white rope, caressing it between thumb and forefinger.

Kelly said, "I think I hear sirens."

Tyson's eyes went as wide as the stitches would allow.

Kelly added, her voice sharp with sarcasm, "Great. Discreet location. Nobody around for miles."

"It's probably just some poor soul getting a speeding ticket," Rick croaked, sounding a bit woozy. "Either that or I hit the panic button on my car."

Tyson smirked. "I disabled that."

Rick opened his eyes and smirked back. "The other panic button."

Tyson roared and lunged at him, eyes wild. Rick went for the flare with his good hand, rolling into the smoking leaves, but couldn't quite reach. He tossed some dirt up into Tyson's eyes, and even with the psychotic _(sociopath my ass!) _energy, there are some disabilities that can't be trumped: even Micheal Meyers would have to pause an attack, at least temporarily, if blinded, or hamstringed. "_Arrow to the knee. Knee to the groin. Whatever it takes,"_ thought Rick.

From his current angle, and since he didn't have an arrow, heel to the groin worked all right. Jerry didn't scream, but let out a sickening, long, drawn-out, growling sort of "eeeeeeeeeegghghgh" noise. He fell over blindly but intentionally across Rick's torso, pinning him, and they swam awkwardly in the pile of leaves like a couple of beached turtles, unable to get the leverage to do any real damage.

Kelly screamed, "SHIT!" and hauled the rope back into the van, not bothering to coil it. Then she grabbed her purse, and took out her cute little red pearl-handled .32 (The pearl was not made from red oysters, but was rather of extruded plastic blended with nacre dust, and had never been anywhere near heaven. But it did - more or less - match her lipstick.) When she returned to the road's edge, she realized she'd turned her back and was now confused. Two men, similar frames, identical tuxes, both bloodied and filthy, swatting ineffectually at each other, rubbing dirt in each other's bloody faces, rolling on the ground, growling like dogs.

Crying "Stop!" Kelly fired her first shot straight up into the sky. This only works in the movies. The men, too absorbed in their battle, barely noticed. The bang hurt her ear, the powder singed her blonde wig, and the gun jerked, tweaking a tendon in her thumb. She was too high on Percoset to really care, but realized with annoyance it might make her tendonitis flare up later.

Kelly's bullet fell back down to earth where it belonged. Unfortunately, it missed her, but popped a hole in the roof of the SUV. She was too damn vain to wear bifocals. She grabbed her distance glasses out of her purse, and hoped she'd be able to distinguish her lover from her prey. She took aim at the man on the bottom (whom she hoped was Rick), missed, and shot the Mercedes' gas tank. Any faithful Mythbusters fan knows that shooting a gas tank won't automatically make a car explode. But shooting a gas tank and having a lit flare waiting for the leak is like peeing on the third rail of life.

"Ok, that's it," she squawked. "I am _not_ going down there." And she ran for the car, leaping in, starting up, pulling out, fishtailing only slightly. Those Escalades are heavy, but surprisingly maneuverable. So glad she had the spare key. She'd never liked Jerry's driving anyway.

Rick knew he had only a second before certain death. Jerry was sitting on him, Rick trying to fend off blows. But one of the many benefits of having stand-up morning shower sex with Kate Beckett almost every day for two years: it's really good for the quadriceps. Rick thrust his hips up off the ground abruptly, sending his nemesis tumbling off to the side. Jerry landed, screaming, in a pile of burning leaves and gasoline.

Rick didn't have time to say it, but he thought it with a bitter, exhausted smile: "Looks like you've been Rick-rolled, brother." Then he did some rolling himself: under the car that was about to explode, and into a deep, dark, abandoned shaft.

_**BOOM.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Too Soon Part 3: I Wanna Get It Wrong**

_Sometimes I feel like I don't know  
Sometimes I feel like checking out  
I wanna get it wrong  
Can't always be strong  
And love it won't be long_

_Oh sugar, don't you cry_  
_Oh child, wipe the tears from your eyes_  
_You know I need you to be strong_  
_And the day is as dark as the night is long_  
_Feel like trash, you make me feel clean_  
_I'm in the black, can't see or be seen_

_Baby baby baby light my way_

_Ultraviolet – U2_

**BOOM. **

From about 3 miles west, the Suffolk County sheriff, Andrew Kloskins, and his deputy, Bob Mullins, saw the fireball. The nature of light and sound being what they are, the BOOM came a moment later.

"Holy shit," said Sheriff Kloskins.

"Damn," said Holst, grabbing the radio.

"Hey, Holst."

"Hey, Estelle. I need another patrol car at 8mile. Make it two, have one come south from Mile Twelve and intercept anyone who's driving weird. Plus we need a fire truck and an ambulance. This is bad, honey, get right on it."

Estelle called for backup and an ambulance. "Hope we're not too late."

They rounded a long curve, came to the straightaway, and seeing the tire marks on the asphalt, pulled over just before the crash scene, lights still flashing. While they completely missed any sight of the long-gone Escalade, these officers were no country rubes. The Hamptons has its share of overly-wealthy, and the poor who wait on them and barely get by. When you have a concentrated population of struggling servant class, you have people who will do anything to make ends meet: people who smuggle – whatever it might be - from one place to another on boats, or try to grow marijuana in the humid summer among tracts swathed with Virginia Creeper and poison ivy, or cook meth in old barns and storm cellars dotting the countryside. Sheriff Kloskins and his deputy knew what they were doing. They were well-trained and careful not to disturb the tire tracks, the bullet casing, or the tire marks where the Mercedes had flown over the side and exploded.

Sheriff Kloskins said, "Radio for a tow truck and fire truck as well." He got out and, watching his feet to avoid disturbing evidence, he hurried to the edge of the asphalt, noting by long practice the fallen car's tire tracks, the signs of fresh footprints both male and female, and a bit of sprayed, fishtailed gravel.

Holst hadn't even had a chance to get out himself. He was rattling the intel off to his dispatcher when Kloskins leaned in over the door frame, his face grim and a bit tinged with smoke. "Coroner, too."

"Estelle, send Dr. Dinkmeyer out with the van. We have a stiff."

Kloskins glared at his insensitivity and motioned for the radio. "Hey Estelle, we got anyone working private security at the Castle wedding?"

"Yeah, Perroni's running it. I got the number."

The sheriff was holding Rick's cel phone, which had been thrown clear when the car landed on its side then tipped down. "Tell Perroni to keep everyone at the house, and calm. Hampton central office tipped us that there are heavy security issues with the Castle wedding. Don't let the bride leave the premises unless under protection. And the security contract will likely have the bride's cel number, we need it now. Also call Chief Brady and apprise him of the situation. He'll want to send a car out to the house, if not himself."

"Oh, crap, Kloskins. She's a cop?"

"Yeah, it's gonna be a mess," Kloskins said. "Gotta go."

He looked at Rick's phone, with no idea how to use it.

Holst put a hand out. "Here, let me."

He woke the phone up. They couldn't figure out the password to call Kate. Fortunately Perroni called a moment later from the wedding, whispering. "I got her number from the caterer. The groom's 15 minutes late, and people stopped joking about parachutes a while ago now."

"Just give it to me," Kloskins said. He wrote Kate's number down. "Thanks."

***  
It wasn't strictly true that Rick and Kate had only invited the guests they really wanted to attend. Captain Victoria Gates was duly invited as Kate's boss, plus 3 including her husband and kids (whom nobody had ever seen; there was some speculation that she'd photoshopped something from Stockphotos). Gates graciously declined and spent the day at work, covering for her three best detectives.

Rick's publicist Paula Hass, who had slept with Rick 'for fun' a few times a decade ago on a book tour and never quite gotten over it, was invited and didn't attend. Instead, Paula stayed home with her cat, folded laundry, watched reruns of The Nanny, and ate two pints of ice cream, although she'd only intended to have a scoop of each. She also ran on her treadmill and did 300 situps in sets of 25.

The mayor of New York City had accepted, but had a last-minute cancellation to deal with the aftermath of a house party his teenage daughter threw the night before without permission.

One uninvited guest showed: A paparazzi, one Bill Shackleford, got a tip on about the hush-hush wedding plans and took a few shots of 200 attending guests, the buses, and the gorgeous backyard overlooking the beach. He never glimpsed the bride or groom. Shackleford awoke twelve hours later in the upstate woods with a sunburn, a fierce headache, a red pin-prick on his neck, and a completely blank SD card in his camera. He missed the whole "exploding car" revelation and was fired from his job. And Jackson Hunt, preoccupied with overdoing the media management, heard about Rick four hours too late.

The people who did show up at the wedding really did want to be there, each for their own reasons. Meredith, ostensibly to support her daughter but really to remind Rick of what he was going to be missing. Gina, because even though the wedding was private, it was still an event, and if it made the presses, she wanted that event to look good. The blushing couple had (in her opinion, foolishly) gone somewhat DIY rather than hiring a wedding planner, and she'd stepped in several times through the day, directing caterers and florists and decorators, getting the DJ situated, putting out favors and place cards, even slicing lemons (because lemonade without lemons just looks like dirty water to Gina).

Kevin and Jenny Ryan laid a picnic blanket out on the grass and sat playing with their baby, Gracie. Gracie had developed a great interest in blowing spit bubbles. She also enjoyed tummy raspberries. You can spend a lot of time doing that before it loses its charm, but in the back of his mind, Kevin was hiding concern.

Castle had taken him and Esposito aside a few weeks before the wedding. "Look. I know Alexis is technically my best man. But, if anything goes wrong... I know I can trust you to look after all my girls, as I'd do for you. Are we good?"

They'd stacked hands. "You know it, bro," Esposito had said.

Ryan had nodded. "You got it." No spit needed.

Here on this sunny, somehow worrisome day, Ryan glanced over at Espo and Lanie, who were having eye-sex but keeping hands discreetly to themselves.

Jenny shared her husband's beleaguered gaze. "They're in the next guest room tonight," she sighed.  
He grinned. "Well, if we're awake all night, it won't be because of the baby."  
"Nice for a change, I guess."

Perlmutter arrived on the last bus, and his Plus One. She turned out to be an extremely lifelike doll named Arlene, ensconced serenely in a wheelchair. Her caramel-brown hair was cut in wavy layers, her expression bland and sweet, pink lips glossed and curved around a gentle "oh". She bore a slight, but not too disturbing, resemblance to the bride. While the other passengers stared with very mixed emotions, Perlmutter maneuvered her chair into the charter bus and locked her into the wheelchair dock. He kept her company the whole way. Once arriving at the Castle estate, he navigated her into a sunny area of the backyard, pulled up a chair, and sat with his arm around her, looking out over the ocean, talking about the time he went to Montauk when he was four and a horseshoe crab scared the daylights out of him. Arlene seemed shy and disinclined to make conversation. Given his social skills, they really were perfect for one another.

***  
Meredith had been invited because 1) she was Alexis' mother and 2) Kate liked the idea of keeping her frenemies close. Meredith no longer had particular sexual designs on her ex-husband, although if Rick had hauled her into the cabana and given her one last pre-wedding thrill for old times' sake, she would have taken him up on it. But Ricky was nowhere to be seen, and Meredith's free agency was fine by her. She loved a man in uniform (or out). Even an off-duty cop filling in as security at her ex-husband's wedding. She'd had a few glasses of wine at lunch on the way out to the Hamptons. She was feeling flushed and irritated, trying to catch Officer Perroni's eye, but he was on the phone, and when she gave him a come-hither look, he turned away from her. Frustrated and wondering if she was getting old or something, she found an older woman sitting on a bench in the shade. Meredith sat down, hoping to keep her ivory skin from burning in the late afternoon sun.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." The older woman was tall, not elderly but silver-haired, with clear green eyes and high cheekbones, wearing a lavender linen pantsuit.

Meredith grinned. "I love weddings, don't you?"

"I do when the bride and groom are both on time," the woman replied. She fanned herself with a wedding program.

"Ricky tends to run late sometimes. But, you know, never when he's in love." She paused at the woman's glare. "I mean, I'm sure it's not his fault, he's just unstoppable, I mean..." she blushed. "He's a wonderful man. I'm sure they'll be very happy."

The older woman said, "I trust you're one of Mr. Castle's _ex-_wives."

Meredith simpered, "Why yes, how did you know? I'm Meredith."

The lady arose from the bench, fanning herself gently. "That's too bad. I'm Teresa Beckett."

Teresa smiled politely, turned and walked away to speak with her brother Jim Beckett, who kept going back and forth around the house, to the driveway, looking up at the sky, searching anxiously for a pleasant surprise.

"The groom's late," she said quietly. She was glad to see that Jim didn't have a glass in his hand.

Jim's anxious frown smoothed, reassuring himself as much as his sister. "He'll be here. Hell or high water."

"Were you expecting him to parachute in?"

Jim chuckled. "I wouldn't put it entirely past him."

"He's rather a self-centered prick if he's keeping her on tenterhooks like this."

"I've come to believe Castle's self-centered prick days are over." Jim hesitated. "I'm worried about him."

Meredith sighed. This wedding was turning into a serious dud and they hadn't even gotten to the reception yet. She stole a look over at the rent-a-cop. He had a really nice ass. Perroni pocketed his phone, took off his sunglasses, and was rubbing his eyes. As an actress, Meredith prided herself on her study of body language. Something in the set of his broad shoulders made her heart skip a beat in alarm. He hurried away toward the house, with the kind of of determination used to portray Bearer of Bad News. Meredith saw a sort of chain reaction follow in his wake. Detective Esposito and Dr. Parrish stopped a lively conversation and rose slowly from their seats. She watched Esposito follow the security cop into the house, and Parrish ran to Detective Ryan, who was holding his baby on his lap, talking to his little blonde wife. He handed the baby off, the wife took her as if the sky was about to fall on them, and then they all hurried toward the house.

Meredith then realized that something big had gone wrong, and true to form, she cried out, "What happened? Where's my Ricky?"

Kate stood on the side of the road, staring down the embankment at the car, which was still engulfed. Bits of ash stuck in the tracks of her tears. Esposito and Lanie had stayed behind a moment, convincing the rent-a-cop that Kate needed to go to the crash scene. Kevin had decked the Rolls driver, commandeered the car (which not only was the fastest on the premises but was also blocking the driveway) and hauled Kate there at 135 mph, convinced (rightly) that she was in no condition to drive.

"Stay in the car," he ordered, and for a moment, Kate actually obeyed him. She sat in the passenger seat, stunned, while he jumped out and ran down the road toward the crash site, so fresh it hadn't even been taped, keeping his wits about him, gleaning intel from the emergency crew on hand. Javi and Lanie roared up a moment later to find Kate standing there like an urban legend come to life. The coroner's van arrived a moment later, and Lanie took her friend's arm. "Let me take care of this, at least as much as they'll let me," she told Kate. "I don't want you seeing... anything..." her voice hitched.

Kate nodded. She was clearly in shock. "It's not him," she said quietly. "Please don't let it be him." But she'd heard a lot of bereaved people say things like that.

Kate hadn't seen the body. Lanie, whose suitcase was still in the trunk of Javi's car, put on some sneakers, showed her ID to the sheriff, and Javi helped her pick her way down the side of the embankment, well away from possible evidence. They circled around to the blackened, smoking area around the car.

It's tricky to quell a petroleum-based fire as it is; putting it out without destroying evidence is almost impossible. It was an ashy, muddy mess.

Esposito said, "Careful. There's still a lot of loose sparks."

Lanie hitched up her skirts, heedless of the muddy destruction on the emerald green fabric, just intent on neither tripping nor destroying evidence. The supervising coroner, Dr. Ronald Dinkmeyer, was already taking a DNA sample, while another took photos. Lanie gave the corpse a once-over, then spoke to Dinkmeyer.

"I'm Dr. Elena Parrish. NYPD. I'm... acquainted with the car's driver."

"I've heard of you." Dinkmeyer handed her a pair of blue gloves and she donned them, then took another good look at the body and hesitated. Said the things they all observed, just to establish that she knew the protocol. "Adult male – Caucasian?"

Dinkmeyer nodded. "Looks like it."

Lanie continued, hiding in the facts, trying to stay objective, realizing as the numbers added up that this could very well be her friend. "Approximately 6'0 to 6'2", 210 to 220 pounds, medium to robust frame. Cause of death..."

Dinkmeyer picked up the assessment when her voice failed. He seemed like a nice guy. "Most likely immolation, possibly smoke inhalation, possibly blunt force trauma with the fire set to hide DNA evidence. Definite signs of a struggle."

"The car exploded," Lanie said. "He must have died pretty quick." The corpse was on its back, most of the tux and flesh burned off. Above the ankles, the body was nearly charred with a core of well-done-to-rare meat, the mouth opened and black tongue screaming up at the sky. Lanie flinched and looked away, overwhelmed. This had never happened to her before, being on the crime scene of someone she truly loved. And despite all her sass, she adored Rick. Her eyes filled with tears. She felt sick, looking up at Kate, hovering up there in white like an angel. Kate who had, at 19, identified her own mother on the slab when her dad broke down. Lanie was smitten with anger. "Life is too fucking cruel sometimes," she growled.

The coroner, Ron Dinkmeyer, said, "I understand it's very probable this victim is Richard Castle, and that you're acquainted with him. Under the circumstances, I'm not sure you can be objective. Identification can wait till we get to the morgue, get the DNA tested."

Lanie shook her head. "No. It can't."

Ryan was openly crying. Esposito's face was gray and blank. _"Pull it together, girl,"_ Lanie thought. She spoke to Dinkmeyer. "Wallet?"

The coroner shook his head. "Might be in the car." The car was still smoking and too hot to touch. It stank.

Lanie shivered. _"I can do this,"_ she said to herself. But she had to work her way up. She looked at Javi and Kevin. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wish Perlmutter was here."

And, weirdly, they got it. Javi's face crumpled a little and he had to turn his back. Kevin gave her a sad little chuckle. "We could use his own special way of not giving a shit."

She squatted in the mud left over by firefighting. The soil was clay, and the fire had baked it in some places, leaving hard-edged depressions. "You know two men were fighting here, right?"

"How can you tell?"

"Handprints. See? Larger hand here. And some blood on the leaves here in the body's shelter. It's cooked brown, but it's blood. Here, this print's slightly smaller. No blood."

Dinkmeyer was taking notes.

Lanie did an overview of the clothes. "I helped them plan the wedding. We went over every detail of every thread the wedding party wore." She closely examined the shoes, which were a bit muddy but barely worn. Lanie even knew what kind of boxers Castle was expected to wear (although she wondered if he'd change into something goofy at the last minute, which apparently was a thing with him). For some reason she found herself fighting a smile. She realized this was a kind of denial, that she was in a bit of shock herself. She said, "Does Castle ever wear a shoulder holster?"

Ryan and Esposito shrugged. "Not that I know of."

"Well, it definitely wasn't in the list of approved wedding attire."

Javi had pulled himself together. The Mercedes' trunk was still open, still had a charred suitcase in it and someone had gotten into a snazzy emergency kit. The metal box was open and its contents melted. There were nifty holders set up to hold four flares. four had exploded and left heaps of ashy residue. Two slots seemed like they might have already been empty. "Looks like two flares might have been used. Any sign of them?"

"They might have been used to torch the car," said Dinkmeyer. Ryan, Esposito, Kloskins and Holst started combing the area, looking for anything, a little pile of residue, that might have been left behind.

Paydirt: Esposito found Tyson's gun amongst the leaves. He held it up. "Anyone recognize this?" He turned it in his gloved hands for examination. "Thirty-eight Glock. One round fired. Think it matches the hole in the fender?"

Dinkmeyer shook his head. "That was likely a 22, from up on the road."

Esposito said, "Maybe dropped in the fight."

He and Ryan continued the search. They found the caps of two flares, one ground down in Rick's own heat-baked footprint. Later they'd find his prints on the cap in the gooseberry bush. The embedded lid had melted. Castle had definitely walked away from the crash. Definitely lit one flare, maybe two.

Lanie took a deep breath and readied herself to look at the corpse. She decided to start with the feet. "Shoes are brand new. Size 12." She sighed. "So far, so bad. But there's no way to tell from wear." She checked the socks, black dress silk/spandex/cotton blend, which had set the wedding budget back $80 for Rick and Jim. The body was progressively more burned as she moved up. "You have a DNA sample?"

Dinkmeyer nodded. "I'll check for a match on the leaves."

She looked closely at the knees. "Castle dislocated his right patella last spring. The connective tissue's burned away on the right knee here, but I'm not seeing any scarring." She and Javi exchanged a hopeful glance.

Lanie stopped her overview at the hips. This man had been wearing black silk boxers, just like all the other men in the wedding party. She closed her eyes. "Any jewelry? The groom was carrying the wedding rings."

Dinkmeyer said, "Nothing so far. If there was a fight, they might have fallen out of his pocket. Might be in the car with his wallet. I'm waiting on the back pockets till we get the body off the ground. Sheriff Kloskins found his phone on the ground near the passenger side. Must have dropped it when he got out."

Lanie nodded, resigned.

"Any sign of a weird Egyptian tattoo on the right hip?"

"No, but the skin's pretty well burned away. We'll have to send it for analysis."

Esposito said, "Castle has a tat?"

"We had an awkward moment at that pool party he threw last July Fourth."

Javi's eyes went dark with shock. "He make a _pass_ at you?!"

Dinkmeyer got up and stepped away, listening in but humming casually, hoping that neither of the people at this crime scene were going to turn out to be suspects. Jealousy's quite the motive.

She rolled her eyes. "Really? You wanna do this now?"

Javi glared.

"It was nothing," Lanie continued in her I-am-trying-to-be-patient voice. "I walked in on him and Kate in the changing area."

"Yeah?"

"She was putting aloe on that sunburned tummy of his. Or so she said."

Javi smirked. "Like he couldn't reach?"

Her face grew serious. "A tattoo wouldn't prove anything, but lack of a tattoo might. Although... oh, my God. Javi, do you think Tyson might have swapped this man out? The way he did you and me?" Lanie thought of the unfortunate woman who'd been made over to look like her, even down to a tat in a very personal place. She got the shivers again.

Javi went a little green, picturing another corpse hanging in a boat: The hapless vic, a carbon copy of himself, eyes glazed, tortured, dead. "If Tyson left this body here to throw us off, where's Castle?" They looked up the hill at Kate. Right now, Jim Beckett was standing with his daughter, and Kate was weeping into his shoulder.

Everything was horrible, as it must be. But for some reason, although Lanie couldn't explain it, everything was better than it might have been. She'd finally worked up the nerve to look at that charred skull, only one of scores she'd seen in the course of her work, yet the most difficult so far. She moved up by the shoulder, leaned down, and looked at the face closely.

She ran her finger along the bridge of the nose. "Huh," she said. "Castle's nose has been broken at least twice, right? But he's never had any work done."

Esposito was trying to make light. "So the man claims..."

"Shut up, Esposito." That was the best thing she could have possibly said. He smiled cautiously, and she continued. "See this? Bridge has been augmented to _look_ broken, but that's not natural for this bone structure, see here? And Kate says he complains about jaw pain sometimes. It's a little crooked."

Ryan said, "You notice it when he smiles."

Espo said, "Sometimes I think Martha dropped him on his head."

Then with a glance for permission from Dinkmeyer, Lanie checked the set of the jaw, swinging it open and shut, examining the fit between teeth.

"Check out the very fine hinge action here."

"Looks straight to me," Ryan smiled.

Lanie made a wordless gesture, and Dinkmeyer handed her a magnifying lens from his kit.

Esposito said, "Didn't I hear you and Castle talking about mercury fillings?"

Ryan perked up. "Yeah. He had all of his replaced a few years ago. Said..." Kevin swallowed. "Said if I got it done too, I'd stop hearing those voices telling me to eat ice cream at 3 a.m..."

Lanie looked at the fillings on the corpse's molars; they were hard to see because of the black smoke stains. "But he's never had veneers."

"Not that I know of." Kevin and Javier glanced at one another, speaking in one voice, and they were down at her side. "What is it?"

Lanie was blinking back tears. "Well, I'm pretty sure this guy has veneers on his front teeth, and enough mercury in his mouth to open a thermometer factory."

Lani's gloved index fingertip wiped away charred tissue on the skull's forehead, above the left eye. "Castle hit his head on a TV when he was little. Chipped his frontal bone. Still has that scar."

Javi laughed. "That's funny, he told me it was a baseball accident when he was eight."

Kevin said, "No way, man. He fell off a horse at summer camp."

With a shaking hand, Lanie handed the magnifier back to Dinkmeyer. "You tell me. Any sign of a 1/2" long vertical dent in the left supraorbital area of this skull's frontal bone?"

Dinkmeyer looked closely and shook his head. "Seems unblemished to me."

He tried to be happy for them, although all he knew for now was that the body was apparently not Richard Castle's, and on that level, his own job had grown that much harder.

Lanie's eyes were wide, and her smile could have raised the Titanic. Kevin didn't even wait for her word, just took off running up the hill toward Kate. Lanie called after him. "I don't know who this John Doe is, but it's not Richard Castle."


	4. Chapter 4

Too Soon Part 4

**Wings of Desire **

_You stumble out of a hole in the ground  
a vampire or a victim... it depends on who's around  
Stay - U2  
_

* * *

The flare, still burning pink below, revealed a sort of ladder, C-shaped sections of rebar set into the concrete walls of the shaft. Hitching himself through the smoking leaf litter, Rick managed to reach across, grab a bar, and pull himself in with his good arm. His body flopped into the hole, he slammed into the side and dropped down about ten feet, landing on the bad ankle with a yelp of agony. He fell to the ground and found a heavy door that swung into the shaft when he pulled down on the handle. Frantic, he hauled himself through, then rolled away into the tunnel, creeping as far and as fast as he could, but really making it only a few feet. With immense effort he tugged at the thick door, which moved with surprising smoothness despite squawking hinges. He heard an irregular ticking noise, like the sound of an overheated car's engine after you pull over, raise the hood, and swear because you're gonna have to call a tow truck. He finally managed to yank the door almost shut, got out of what he estimated as its sweep path, and curled up in a ball as well as he could, covering his head with his arms.

_**BOOM**_.

The door crumpled out of its frame like a paper bag attacked by a bobcat. The explosion lit up the tunnel, and the shock wave decimated the shaft. Showers of dirt, leaves, broken concrete, dust, and bits of rebar hailed around him. As it was, Rick was half-buried in debris, but he managed to roll out of it and lie back, groaning. He was cut and bruised, a huge rock had bounced hard off his hipbone, his ears ached and rang, and it seemed pretty clear he'd lost some hearing. He could smell burning gas and was at first terrified that carbon monoxide would sink down and make short work of him. But there was definitely positive air flow rushing over him from the other end of the tunnel. The convection was feeding the post-explosion flames, like the barbeque chimney he liked to use on the rare occasions he cooked out. He wondered whether it would be smarter to wait until the car burned out (or exploded again? How many times can a car explode? Had the reserve in the carburetor blown too? Did his Mercedes even have a carburetor? He considered buying an electric car. Maybe one of those Arcimotos. How much car can a person need in New York City? Of course if he and Kate had a baby or two, they'd need room for car seats...) Wait. Wait for what? To crawl? He could barely move. With another, smaller _boom_, the chimney up to the car was sealed, and the flare's light was extinguished beneath falling debris.

Kate. How long would it take for her to realize he was late? She hadn't expected him for another fifteen or so minutes. Had the 911 call been taken seriously? Had the police caught Rosie/Kelly Nieman/whatever the hell her name was? Had anyone seen the car explode?

He then realized there was probably a tuxedoed body nearly identical to his, lying next to his burned-out car. If Kate saw that body...

Rick's heart broke for her, and although he tried like hell to hold the tears back, he cried. He was exhausted and overwhelmed and in pain. The sobs just wracked him, the anger and frustration, the fear, the brother never known of, hated, found, and horribly killed by his own hand. Somehow worst of all, he knew that his Kate was going to have to weather blow after blow. He could do nothing to tell her, or his family, that he was alive, that he was for the moment sort of safe, that they would be all right. He knew that any moment now the love of his life would learn that she'd lost him. She had already lost too much.

Castle imagined her standing there, holding the phone, her face white, no tears, sitting down slowly, taking it in. Another little part of her would die at that moment, would never come back; the trust in the universe they had rebuilt, one little stick man at a time. That part of her made of spring steel, that would hold her up and keep her going until she found him, dead or alive? It would make her revert to how she'd been when they met: brittle, lonely, sharp, and dangerous. And if she couldn't find him, it would turn against her and kill her altogether.

He calmed himself down pretty fast, all things considered. He did have a tiny pragmatic streak, and it reminded him that he'd already lost blood and might be going without water for a while. He felt no shame about his tears. He'd done a lot of reading about the release of stress chemicals. Up there in real life everyone would try to be strong for each other, and they would all shove their pain into the background as much as they could, and go about the task of finding the truth. Maybe the task of finding him, if he was lucky. He wondered what they were thinking. He knew they were already a family, that they would take care of one another. He ached to be of some help. Part and parcel of Richard Castle: the man needed to be needed.

Rick thought about that old Wim Wenders movie, _Wings of Desire_, where angels perched atop a high, pedestaled statue in a grand old city, waiting for people to die. The angels wore trench coats and sometimes had huge wings, other times not. And they would fly down to take the dying in their arms, whisper words of comfort, hold them as soul left body. Rick knew he was no angel, and although he didn't consider himself remotely psychic, he reached out anyway, imagining himself guiding everyone through what he knew, nudging them to search out what he didn't know. He pictured himself not in this stupid tux but a big coat like that angel's, warm and brown and soft, his arms wrapped around Kate's shoulders, giving her strength. He put his hand between her breasts, and palmed his joy of life into her frantically beating heart. And he didn't whisper it. He said it aloud, with all the strength he could muster, the words rumbling deep in his chest, so that she'd feel it with the force of her being. "Kate. My heart is with you, and you know I'm not gone yet. Follow what you know. Follow your heart and find me." He pictured her handing the phone off, pictured the boys and Lanie coming to the crash site with her. Keeping her safe, and focused, and letting her lead when she could. Back to her heart.

And Alexis! God. He knew too well how a parent's murder can emotionally eviscerate a child. He sat his mind down in the big easy chair in the Hamptons house living room, put his arms out and she threw herself into his lap, weeping, rocking, devastated. His arms tightened around her, almost seemed to go through her, and he murmured into her ear. "Now is your time to cry, Pumpkin. You just feel what you feel. Just don't let fear get in your way, OK? There is so much love surrounding you. So many people who will take care of you when you need it. You can believe in them. They won't fail us." He wove his strength into her DNA, he breathed his faith into her lungs and his vision into her sight and his clear thinking into a mind whose brilliance surpassed his own. "You can believe in yourself, in what you know, in what you remember, in what you dream. Help Kate find her happy ending. Don't give up."

Martha. He was so grateful. Not just for the mothering, although he'd only just started to scratch the surface of understanding that. He was grateful that they'd both lived long enough to become friends. He stood next to her, where she leaned against the kitchen island, her knuckles white. She grimly opened a bottle of champagne, was about to pour herself a glass with a shaking hand. He cupped her jaw in his palm, stared into her achingly blue eyes with his own. He spoke softly. "You can wait until we have something to celebrate. You don't need this now." She bowed her head. He placed his other hand over hers, and together they set the empty glass down. "Kate's mother has a saying on her tombstone: _Truth conquers all_. Kate needs to know the truth. Unembellished." He kissed Martha's cheek, leaving a shadow of a smile on her lips. "You can go back to embellishing it again when I'm home."

His mind inventoried all the people he loved, all the people who loved him back, and for each, he felt their sorrow, and returned it with endless waves of love.

Castle found himself standing in flames that he could not feel, except in the heat from his wrist and ankle. He walked out of them to find Kevin Ryan, head bowed, saying a quick prayer as the car still blazed. Javier Esposito was half turned away, a hand rubbing his eyes, the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. Castle knew Esposito would give himself this fleeting moment, hide his grief in gallows humor, then go home and punch a wall or something later, once the case was put to bed. Espo turned to Ryan, and standing together they surveyed the car and the body in stoic silence. Rick imagined spreading his arms wide across both men from behind, grasped their shoulders, and stuck his head between them. "This is as close to a group hug as we're gonna get right now," he said, and perhaps each of them thought the other had said it aloud. Javi and Kevin leaned together very briefly, just bumping elbows. Rick thought to them, "Do you wonder why the car's sunk so deep in the ground?"

Ryan said, "You think there was a bomb in the car?"

Espo frowned. "Why?"

"It's practically a blast crater. See how the front end's sunk down? That's not just the tires melting, it almost looks like it's buried itself."

"Might just be the angle."

Ryan turned to the sheriff. "Excuse me, do you have a soils expert on call?"

Esposito added, "Might be helpful to get records about the land hereabouts, in case we need to do a search."

"It's Sunday afternoon. We'll have to open up the hall of records and get a clerk on it," the sheriff replied. "I'll get right on that."

"Yeah, you do that," Castle murmured. "Something odd about this hole in the ground." He smiled. He knew the records were there. He'd read them himself, twelve years ago, researching for his first romance novel, _Deep in Desire__ by Claire Sainte Victoire. _The back cover blurb: _There are many secrets lurking in the Long Island countryside. Sylvia Atkinson stumbled across one that would either kill her or make her stronger. Is Cade Masters a folk hero or a traitor? A mensch or a monster? Sylvia must decide whether to continue skimming the surface of life or let herself fall... Deep In Desire! _

Rick had spent many summer hours combing both the countryside and the local historical libraries. A system of islands off the Atlantic coast was prime smuggling territory. Everything from people to weapons to exotic pets to drugs had been stashed away. During the depression, moonshiners had plied their trade. Later, marijuana was grown in the warm, humid summers and in foil-lined basements with grow lights. More recently meth was cooked, and there were even a few S&amp;M "dungeons" catering to the rich and paranoid. This particular hole had been utilized for several different purposes. Originally dug out from a root cellar, it had housed escaped slaves, and in the 1930s, beer had been brewed, a speakeasy run in the basement of the old estate house that had once been connected to the tunnel. In the 1950s the owner had gotten the idea of building a bomb shelter then run out of one or more factors: motivation, money, or concrete, or paranoia, or time, or maybe their back give out. It was here that Rick – writing as Claire Sainte Victoire - set the scene where Sylvia realizes that folk singer Cade is using this rural farm as a way-station for draft dodgers to escape into Canada. Since Tyson rear-ended Kate's car the year before, Rick had the mental equivalent of foxholes everywhere. This was just the one he'd wound up in. He hadn't counted on being run off the road. But better here than barreling off to dusty death with Tyson.

If anything, Rick felt that Lanie was his trump card. His drifting mind found her already on the crime scene too, hurrying from Esposito's car. Rick imagined himself with wings, and that worked nicely. He didn't have to flap them, just sort of raised them and floated up, like the Viridian Lamp superhero. He set down lightly with a smirk, stopped her at the top of the hill. _"It's such a shame about the dress, I never got to see it on you."_

She sighed, thinking, _"You would have just stared at my assets anyway, you bad man."_

"_You'll want to change your shoes. Broken ankles really do suck."_

Lanie went back to the car, dug through her suitcase. He held her hand as they hurried back to the crime scene together. She did most of the talking, thinking to him as if he were an imaginary friend. _"You know, I liked you from Day One, you big jackass. I knew you and Kate had something special and I swear, I would've had to pull her teeth to get her to admit it. But I've always been on your side, Rick. I'm on your side now."_

He held her elbow, and she waited for Javi to pick his way up the bank to meet her. From this angle they had a pretty good view of the car. The body was, mercifully, hidden from the road. Hidden from Kate.

Castle smiled at Lanie. _"You're gonna figure out that's not me, pretty fast."_

_"If that isn't you, I'm gonna have to deal with some stupid SOB who says you got cold feet and faked your own death. By the way, did you have a prenup?"_

_"Kate made me. And I updated my will, too, you knew that. You all have a little motive for murder in there." _

Lanie's eyes blurred with tears. _"You're a sweet man when you're so inclined. She never wanted your money. In fact, I think it got in the way."_

_"I know,"_ he added. _"But without the books, we never would have found one another."_

The most horrible though crossed Lanie's mind. _"Next book you write should be a cookbook, Richard Castle."_

_"Barbeque?" he snickered._

"Ugh." She spoke aloud, bared her teeth and shook her head. _"Even for a coroner, it's too soon. I'm turning into Perlmutter. Now get out of my brain, Castle, I've got work to do."  
_

* * *

His imagination met up with the rest of him, back down in the dusty darkness. There was nothing he could do but try to send them all psychic love-balls through ten feet of rubble. That, of course, felt completely inadequate, and a surge of rage flared up in him. He spoke aloud to the black unknown. "This is so fucking... _unfair_."

Mephistopheles's voice rumbled around in the back of his head. _"Yeah, Rick, like life is fair."_

He could have sworn he heard Kate's voice. _"Even the worst days have the possibility for joy." _

Mephistopheles smirked,_ "Even the best days have the possibility of despair."_

"Aw, shut up," Rick groaned."I did not need that thought."

Meph said, "You stop thinking, you die, Rickyboy."

He really didn't want to die yet. You make your luck. He'd made a lot of luck, and much of that had been a combination of curiosity and gratitude. When he wanted to learn about something, he went all out. And when he received something, he either gave back in kind or paid it forward. Was there really such a thing as karma, and if so would he be on the fratricide end of the karmic spectrum, or the disarming-a-nuclear-bomb end? He wondered how much help the mayor might be, or Judge Markway or even his legions of detail-obsessed fans. He wondered whether the local police in their infinite wisdom would keep the crash under wraps, or put out an APB for kidnapping. He wondered if anyone would come forth with tips, if anyone would offer help, if Kate would accept help, if the locals would accept help from the Twelfth. And if / when the crime came to be considered a kidnapping, how would things go with the FBI?

What a mess.

Speaking of mess, he murmured, "I am a mess." He tried to sit up. His bruised hip ached, so he had to rock over onto one side a little. His right hand was useless, also swollen. His ankle was swelling tightly into his dress sock, and although it was too dark to see more than a little, the sock was torn and sticky with drying blood, but nothing too fresh: not a compound fracture, then, just a cut over the sprain. Insult to injury. Sprained, broken, what's the difference if you can't stand on it? He leaned painfully against the concrete wall and removed his bow tie painfully and wrapped his gunshot wrist with it painfully using left hand and teeth. Feeling like between the musty smell and the painful pain he could barely breathe, he unfastened his top three shirt buttons painfully and I guess pain will just painfully reduce a writher, I mean writer, to just painful overusing of adverbs that would literally or perhaps virtually make Stephen King scream and turn in his grave although he's not even dead yet and _am I hallucinating or do I hear music?_

Truth is, he did not hear music. His ears were still ringing from the explosion, and he wasn't awake. He'd passed out leaning against the wall. He was far away, in dreamland, an hour later when Lanie and Esposito got into the coroner's van with his brother's body. He was beyond even dreaming at 10:45 pm., never noticing the vibration and dust when the crane crew arrived to haul the Mercedes out of its crater. When he came out of a stupor at 11:11 (really!?), he found himself laughing. "Oh, my God, I'm wearing a watch, and it lights up like a motherfucker..." He couldn't push the button with his bad hand. "Son of a bitch!" He couldn't push it with his tooth and still read the time. "Thun of a bith, come on!" He tried pressing it against uneven rock surfaces until a tiny piece jutted in and the watch illuminated.

He imagined a tiny town crier waving a blue lantern. "_11:16 pm, and the tunnel is dark. Except for the eyes. Run Away." _

There were eyes... maybe 200 tiny, paired pinpoints of light... looking down on him from the ceiling. He had a feeling they weren't angels.


	5. Chapter 5

**A note to my darling readers: I am so grateful for your reviews, follows, feedback, and encouragement. It's gonna get dark, and when the going gets dark, the dark get going. Darkest before the dawn. Something like that. I will not tell you what's going to happen, but I will say that I greatly admire both justice and happy endings, as long as they are earned. Here's where we have to earn them. **

**Stay with me! As always, constructive criticism is welcome. xo**

* * *

**Sometimes You Can't Make It (On Your Own)**

_I know that we don't talk  
I'm sick of it all  
Can - you - hear - me - when - I -  
Sing, you're the reason I sing  
You're the reason why the opera is in me..._

Where are we now?  
I've still got to let you know  
A house still doesn't make a home  
Don't leave me here alone...

And it's you when I look in the mirror  
And it's you that makes it hard to let go  
Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own** – U2**

Teresa and Jim watched the bride and Kevin Ryan burst out of the house in a dead run down the long gravel driveway. The last car by the main road was the white Rolls, and it was blocking all the other vehicles, poised to leave first and carry the bride and groom to their B&amp;B that night. Ryan was talking to Kate. "Look, let me handle this," he said. The limo driver, Bob Nutter, was napping in the limo's back seat. Ryan hauled the door open and the driver jumped awake.

Ryan cried, "NYPD! We have an emergency. I need to commandeer your car."

Nutter stared at him. "Sir, I'd be happy to drive you wherever -"

"Get out," Kate said.

The driver said, "Jeez, lady, I didn't sign up for this."

She reached in, collared him, and roared, "THEN GET OUT OF THE CAR."

Nutter clambered out. "If you think I'm gonna let you take a $50,000 antique car for a joy ride, then..."

Ryan finished the sentence for him: "Then she's absolutely correct." Ryan punched him. Nutter fell back on the grass with a grunt, cradled his jaw with his left hand, and produced the keys with his right.

Jim assisted Kate into the Rolls passenger seat, helping her gather her skirts, pulling her shoulder belt out at length and buckling her in like a child before she could even protest. "You two be careful," he admonished, and shut the door, making sure she was safely inside. "Katie, I'll be right behind you." The Rolls peeled out and rumbled away down the road toward the Montauk Highway. Jim spoke briefly with his sister, leading her to his car as he talked. He said, "T, can you hold down the fort here? I can't let Katie do this by herself again."

Teresa nodded. "Just be careful, Jim."

"I don't know how long we'll be gone, but I do know Martha's going to need some help."

"Whatever she asks." Teresa hugged him briefly. "You can do this, Jim."

Jim nodded. "_Hell_, yes, I can do this." He smiled wryly at his sister. "And yes, I'll be careful." It occurred to both of them as Jim drove away that they had no idea what had actually befallen Castle, and horrible ideas raced in their minds. Teresa had only met Rick the night before at the rehearsal dinner, although she'd read a couple of his books. She liked him, and she knew Katie loved him, and that was enough for her. Her heart sank.

Teresa watched as Esposito and Lanie ran for his car. Esposito stopped a moment and pressed a little key into Teresa's hand. "Do me a favor, make sure Perroni's calmed down before you uncuff him, ok?"

"Perroni?"

"The rent-a-cop." Espo chuckled. "Tried to make the bride stay here." He paused a second. "Uh, which way?"

Teresa pointed after the other vehicles. Lanie cried, "Hurry up!" Esposito said "Thanks," and they took off.

Teresa looked down at the limo driver and offered him a hand up, but he got up on his own, rubbing his neck. "What the hell happened?"

She said, "Let's go get you some ice." She gestured to a flower-decked bench on the porch. "Sit here." She went to the fridge, found a bag of frozen blueberries, and tossed it to Nutter, who cradled it agains his swelling jaw. Teresa then went back into the house and found Officer Perroni stretched out cold and handcuffed on the dressing room floor, his eye blackened. Teresa hunted around, looking for Martha, whom she'd only met briefly. She didn't seem to be anywhere. Finally Teresa knocked on one of the bathroom doors. "Ms. Rogers, are you in there?"

There was a small noise – possibly a medicine chest closing - and a quiet, throaty voice. "Is there further news?"

"I don't know. I'm Jim's sister. Teresa Beckett? He asked me to check on you."

The door opened. Martha had splashed cold water on her face and reapplied her lipstick. "Where is Jim?"

"He followed Katie and her friends..." Teresa indicated the general direction.

Martha's eyes looked all the bluer for being bloodshot. "I want to go... but I'd be useless there."

Teresa nodded. "So would I." She offered a hand. "Come on out."

Martha followed her, looking dazed. "Where is Alexis?"

"Let's go find her. Perhaps we can be of some use after all." She escorted Martha into the living room and guided her into a chair. "I'll have a look around for her."

Martha gave her a grateful smile. "Perhaps she's holed up in one of the other powder rooms." Teresa nodded and set off. It was a big house.

Meredith ran into the living room through the French doors, panting. Feet pounded down the steps: first Kate, then Ryan, then shortly after, Lanie and Esposito, hurtling out the front door without so much as a glance at her. Shrieking, "Alexis? Baby?" Meredith circulated around the house, but there was no sign of her daughter, although she did spy Officer Perroni lying on the floor in handcuffs. _"Hmmm. Intriguing."_ But then Alexis appeared as if from nowhere, running to her mother, voice high and scared, unselfconsciously using the word she hadn't uttered in a decade. "Mommy!"

Meredith threw her arms around her daughter. "What happened, sweetheart? Is Daddy all right?"

Alexis was in tears. Meredith started to cry, too, just by osmosis, and looked around to see who might be able to give an explanation (or who might be watching her have an epic breakdown). She dotted Alexis' face and hair with kisses. "It's all right, Sweetie. Mommy's here."

To Meredith's annoyance, Gina Griffin Cowell (formerly Castle), of all people, stepped in silently, staring at the two of them. Waiting for it. At Teresa's behest, she'd checked over the rent-a-cop and brought him ice for his eye, where Kate's fist had connected. She said tersely, "Rick's been in an accident. His car went off the road about five miles from here."

Alexis said, "Kate got a call. Then Officer Perroni came in and tried to stop her from leaving." The girl indicated the supine officer and almost summoned a giggle. "For her own safety! She told him to get out of her way. He tried to cuff her. She knocked him out cold and had those things on him so fast..." Mother and child left the dressing room and headed down the stairs. Gina bent over the officer again, patted his cheek. She left the ice bag near him so he'd see it when he came to.

Meredith wailed. "Oh, my poor baby!" She held Alexis so tightly the girl nearly choked. "My god. This is terrible. What are we going to do? Is he all right?"

Alexis' voice was muffled. "I don't know. We don't – Detective Bec- Kate – they're gone, they left." She added in a small, miserable voice, "They wouldn't let me come with them."

Gina had caught up, and they all continued through the great room toward the kitchen. "Honey, there's not much you can do right now, and maybe it's better..."

Interrupting, Meredith frowned and took Alexis' face between her hands. "We'll just see about that. You're his _daughter_." She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. "And I'm your _mother_. We should be there."

Alexis said, "Mom, don't. Kate -"

"Sweetie, if he's dying, you'll never forgive yourself."

Gina knocked Meredith's phone out of her hand. It went spinning across the tiled floor and under a chair. "If he's _dying_?"

Meredith gasped. "What was that for?"

Gina was shorter than Meredith, but her little spine of steel was even straighter than usual. "Really? Listen to me, you self-absorbed bitch. Alexis and Martha need our support. Here. Not with you rubbernecking and playing Greek Chorus at..."

"But I am being supportive. How would you know, you never even wanted kids."

Gina restrained herself, but her tone was dangerous. "Where were you when Alexis was kidnapped? Where were _we_ when Rick was framed for murder? Did you ever once think what Rick might want in a situation like this? What Kate might need to get through this fucking nightmare?"

"Oh, like you're so concerned about _Kate_. If he dies his book sales will go nuts. That's all you care about, is riding his ass to get more money out of him."

Alexis stared at the two women in horror. "Please, don't do this."

"I don't give a flying crap about his books!" Gina cried. "He never even needs to publish another title! We'll be making cash off the residuals and interest till the the Zombie Apocalypse, and he'd be just as happy living in a trailer in Poughkeepsie."

Meredith scoffed. "I sure wouldn't, neither would you."

Gina's eyes narrowed. "I don't know whether _you_ ever even loved him. But _I still do._ But I've accepted that Kate's the _only_ one who's ever made him really happy. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"_My_ daughter makes him happy. Kate's the goddamn drama queen, not me, and I've mopped his tears off my shoulder more than once for her bullshit."

"I don't think those were tears, Meredith, and I doubt it was your shoulder."

Alexis began, "_Kate's_ a drama queen..."

Meredith was fuming. "If he does live through this, give Kate a month before she finds some reason to make him miserable again."

But Gina wasn't done hollering at Meredith. "By the time you were done screwing with his heart, he barely trusted me to pick up a carton of eggs at the store."

"At least I'm not driving Alexis out of her own home like Kate is."

Alexis grabbed an empty wine glass and slammed it down hard into the kitchen sink, where it shattered against the cold stainless. _"God, Mother, will you shut up!"_

Meredith grabbed Alexis' arm, too hard. "How can you turn on me like this? I might be all you have left." Alexis twisted easily, wrenching free, and backed away in dismay.

"For everybody's sake, I sure hope not." Gina shoved Meredith in the shoulders, herding her back to the French doors. "Grow the fuck up."

Meredith fell down on her ass. Her shiny dress split, and beads skittered around on the warm pine floorboards.

Silence fell over the room a moment. From the corner came a quiet chuckle. Martha was sitting in the shadows, still in the easy chair. Her eyes were streaming tears. Alexis ran to her. "Oh, Grams, I'm so sorry! We were just... This is so awful, we're all so freaked out."

Martha dabbed her eyes on a tissue and waved her granddaughter off gently. She smiled at Gina, who had placed an embarrassed hand over her mouth. "Gina, darling, that was _almost_ worth the price of admission." She rose slowly out of her chair, and looked out the back door, across the rows of chairs and the flower-decked altar area to the ocean. Clear blue sky. "It would have been a perfect day."

For the first time in her life, Alexis thought her grandma a little too thin. Frail. Martha's voice was small and shaky. "We need to make sure one hundred eighty-seven people and one sex doll get back on their buses and go home."

Meredith played the nobility card. "I'll do it." Alexis helped her up off the floor. She smoothed her skirt, and more pearly beads scattered. "I was born to deal with an audience."

Still gazing outside, Martha didn't even turn to face Meredith. "This is not about _you_. For once." She straightened her shoulders, her voice firm again, "Besides, you've popped a seam. You need to change."

Meredith simpered, "I..." Meredith blinked. She looked genuinely bereft, deflated in the face of Martha's calm dignity. She quavered, "I don't know what to do."

Martha continued, more gently. She knew that in her own shallow and narcissistic way, Meredith had loved Rick as much as she was capable. "Slip into something more comfortable. Clear out the sink, fill the dishwasher, and take out the trash. We need some semblance of order."

She turned to Gina, placing a weary, affectionate hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "You've managed parties and events for hundreds of people. I know _you_ can handle a crowd," she glanced sidelong at the chastened Meredith, "Without turning it into a riot."

Gina swallowed and nodded. "Thank you, Martha."

They hugged, and Martha leaned on her a moment. "Thank _you_, Gina. I don't think I can -" her voice shook, and she stepped back, pressing her hands over her eyes. "I'll stay by the phone." She sat back down in the easy chair. "Alexis, might I have a glass of lemonade, please?"

Alexis nodded, and went outside to the drink station where five-gallon glass dispensers of water, ice tea, red hibiscus punch, and lemonade sparkled, the yellow lemon slices translucent in the sun. She poured a couple of tumblers and watched Gina talking to the caterers. She withdrew into the house again to find Kate's Aunt Teresa talking to Martha.

Teresa, who had sat unnoticed as the catfight erupted, had watched Martha and Alexis in silent admiration. She said, "I'll have the caterers pack up food in to-go containers for your guests, but keep some of it aside. This place might be overrun with hungry officers for the next few days. And possibly the press as well."

Martha nodded. "Thank you, Teresa."

Teresa stepped outside, passing Alexis with a gentle smile. She called 911. "My name is Teresa Beckett. I'm at the Castle estate, and while there is no immediate emergency here, we'd like an ambulance. It seems that Officer Perroni has hit his head. He's resting comfortably. You know the address?" she smiled. "Thank you. We'll be expecting someone. And may I ask for no sirens? We have a stressful situation here as it is."

Alexis approached Martha with the drinks, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and they toasted one another silently, downing the lemonade in one long draught, the horrible dryness of stress somewhat relieved by such a simple thing as lemons, sugar, and water.

"Better," Martha whispered.

"Could hardly be worse," Alexis replied. She took the empty tumblers and put them in the dishwasher. She then wrapped her hand in damp paper towels, and cleaned up the contained explosion of broken glass in the sink.

Meredith reappeared a moment later, wearing a bright sundress and flat sandals. She wordlessly set about collecting glasses, appetizer plates, and whatever mess lay around the house from wedding preparations. She was sulking, slamming things around a little more than was strictly necessary. Alexis' stony expression matched her own.

Finally, Meredith said, "Aren't you going to apologize?"

"No, Mother, I'm not. Are you?"

They continued to work in silence. Martha laid her head back in the easy chair and sighed, waiting for the phone to ring.

Gina took her heart in her hands and asked the catering staff to help gather everyone who was milling around the yard or killing time – ugh, Rick would have made some stupid pun there - on the beach.

She gazed out over the ocean as if to find strength from it, as Martha had done moments before. Rick's eyes were that shade of blue sometimes, water mixed with sky. Had been? Was he still alive? Her heart ached for herself, for him, for his family, even for Kate. She'd known and liked Rick for almost twenty years; shared days in bed and nights at work; come to love him. She'd stayed up all night reading his stories; celebrated his triumphs; and nursed him through bad reviews, contract negotiations, and writer's block. They had tried mightily, and failed, to build a marriage together. Despite their ups and downs, their romantic disappointment and their friction over practical matters, they were dear friends. Otherwise their business partnership could never have worked. He was so good with the words. She knew them when she saw them, but putting them in the right order was rightfully his job.

Heart pounding, Gina turned back to almost two hundred anxious faces. Over the years he had gratefully trusted her to deal with his adoring public. Here at the wedding, this sector of the public adored him most of all. A trickle of sweat slipped down her spine and pooled at the waistband of her coral linen skirt.

She tried to keep the announcement simple. "Richard Castle's been in a serious accident. We don't know yet just how bad it is. Kate and her– her team are at the crash site now." She took a deep, shaky breath. As she spoke, the crowd's reactions ranged from stoicism to quite a few people – including a few police officers and Judge Markway – in tears. Dr. Perlmutter – whom Gina didn't know – put his his face down against the doll's shoulder a moment, hiding his face in her caramel-blonde, wavy hair.

Gina found it hard to look at anyone, their pain mirroring her own. "We'd like to ask you to return home. Please, uh..." She faltered a moment. To her surprise, Judge Markway stepped out of the crowd and took a place at her side. She barely knew him outside of Rick's old poker parties, a few fundraisers and occasional cocktails. Rick and Kate had asked him to officiate at the wedding, and he'd gladly accepted.

Markway looked out at everyone with his sad eyes, cleared his throat, then spoke firmly by virtue of long practice. "We'd like to ask you to keep Rick, Kate, and their family in your prayers, and keep this situation private until the police know more. The crash is being treated as a crime scene, and while everyone here..." his eyes swam. "Everyone here wishes them happiness, Kate and the rest of his family may also be at risk."

He took Gina's arm, and looked over at her. She smiled a little in gratitude for someone to lean on, even for a moment. She added, "I know that if Rick could be here now he'd – he'd be so glad that you all came. Came to see him and Kate on what should have been the happiest day of their lives. I know the family can continue to count on your love and support. I'm sure everyone wants to step in and help somehow, but the police are still assessing the situation, and we promise to... to keep you posted." She finished with a raw whisper that even Perlmutter's date could hear in the awful silence. "Thank you."

***  
Phone calls were made. Because Rick Castle knows someone who knows someone.

Once Gina had recovered her equilibrium, she called Paula Haas at home and told her the news, holding the phone away from her ear in anticipation of her screaming. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. Gina just waited, silently, knowing it would pass.

Paula went through the litany. "Omigawd. Poor Alexis! Poor Kate. Is Martha ok? She's gonna have a heart attack. This is awful. Did they find a body in the car?"

"God, Paula!"

"Come on, I'm in the dark here. And it's not like I never slept with him. We were fuck-buddies for a while there."

Gina face-palmed. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Paula."

"I was so stupid to let him go." Paula was definitely crying now.

"Oh, come on. You never really had him. Neither did I."

"He was so goddamn sweet." _(Sniffle. Honk.)_

"Paula. We don't even know if he's dead or alive."

"Oh." Paula said. "Omigawd, Gina, sales are gonna go through the frickin' roof."

"Sometimes I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah, everybody does, but it goes with the territory. You want me to put a press release together?"

"I want you to do a couple of different versions, and just be ready."

"For what?"

"Like I said, we don't know if he's dead or alive. We don't know if it was an accident or random road rage or premeditated. He may have just wandered away into the woods, he might have died in the wreck, he might have been kidnapped..." Gina's voice rose to an almost frantic pitch, unknowingly echoing not only Kate Beckett's thoughts, but everyone else's as well. But here's where she diverged: "And in about twenty minutes, some _idiot_ will tweet about it, and then we'll have helicopters all over the place, and..." Just thinking it left her feeling a bit panicked.

"Oh, Honey. Feeding frenzy." Paula's voice might have been sympathetic, but Gina could tell she'd gotten over the shock quickly, as Paula always did when she'd been drinking mudslides and watching reruns of The Nanny.

"Yeah. So I need you to be our firewall, ok? Hit the presses before they hit you."

"I'll do what I can. Jeez. Gina, What do you want me to say?"

"Put it up on the web site, hit Reuters and AP and Page Six. Confirm there's been an accident, give no details, ask for the family's privacy in this time of crisis. Then go at them from an anonymous angle. Make nebulous comments about 'and did you hear that new thing about Bradgelina?' Hint at some insider-info tabloid tips."

"I hear a certain heiress is paying a visit to the Hamptons. That must be what the fuss is about, right?"

"Perfect! It's like throwing a stick for a retriever. Hit all the usual tabloids... Enquiring Mindless, Peep-hole, User, the Glob, Weak World Newts... Nothing verifiable, but juicy. We want this situation to come and go as fast as possible in the public eye."

"Bada bing, baby. We can neither confirm nor deny. Anything else?"

"I can't just sit around here and do nothing. Can you call Luisa and Eileen and Moser in? I want them to start going through Rick's social media stuff, and fan-fiction pages as well. The cops will want someone familiar with the sites to check for any clues or creeps. And we get to dig out the current crop of weird letters."

"What, you're a detective now?"

"Remember what happened when Beckett pulled Rick in for questioning that first time? Also when Rick was framed for murdering that poor girl. The police were all over us."

Paula blew her nose with a loud honk. "You've been reading too much Nikki Heat."

Gina sighed. "Not really. Truth to tell, I stopped reading halfway through page 105 of the first book in the series. I let Luisa ghost-edit them for me, read her notes, and stay away from the steamy stuff."

"Ohmigawd, Honey, I felt the same way when he wrote that bodice-ripper about the folk-singing underground railroad guy... You know that love scene in the tunnel? I mean, he described my tits to a tee."

"Just make sure nothing else gets ripped today, especially you. I need you on your toes, so sober up. See you around 7 pm." Gina hung up with a sigh. Rick had ghost-written a couple of awful romance novels under the name Claire Sainte Victoire, during a contract dispute with Black Pawn. At least she assumed they were awful: she hadn't read them on principal. He'd been unfaithful – taken them to another publisher! - noting "Since the money's going toward Meredith's alimony, you can either put up with it or get used to eating ramen three times a day."

Judge Markway called another local judge, asking him to keep the avenues open for quick warrants as they became necessary. This involved a minor golf game interruption, but the local judge owed him a favor, and it was no big deal. They made a game date for the following morning. Markway was quietly hoping his services might still be needed locally. He loved Rick and he liked Kate. He'd seen too many bad people get away with murder, and too many good people suffer, and it pained him to realize that this wedding might never happen. Then he headed off to the B&amp;B he'd booked himself for the long weekend, and made another date with a bottle of single malt and a good book.

The Mayor phoned Captain Victoria Gates at the Twelfth Precinct. Gates, in turn, called Sheriff Kloskins, and even though they were strangers, he could hear distress masked in her firm voice. "I know you've got this, Sheriff, but if you need anything from the Twelfth Precinct – if you need volunteers to help search, additional resources of _any_ kind... don't hesitate. We have people standing by ready to help."

Sheriff Kloskins demurred. "At this point we're looking at evidence and trying to figure out exactly what happened. You'll be first on my list. Can I borrow Esposito, Ryan, and Parrish for a few days, Ma'am?"

Gates overlooked her preference for 'sir'. "None of them were expected back until Tuesday anyway. I'll call the coroner's office and let Dr. Parrish's supervisor know the situation. It won't be a problem. Please let them all know."

Kloskins said, "There's another forensics guy on the scene now... I hear his name's Perlmutter. He took a cab out here. Can you ask to have him returned to the city? He insists on helping, but... frankly, he's creeping everyone out."

Gates sighed. "I understand." She paused. "Did he bring his doll to the crime scene?"

"Yeah. And she keeps lookin' at me."

Gats shuddered. "I ran into them once at the grocery store. Gave me the willies."

Victoria Gates made more phone calls: first to the supervising coroner, then to all hands on a volunteer basis, to stand by if needed. She drew the blinds in her office, locked the door, and sobbed like a baby for three minutes. Then she put it aside, fixed her eyeliner, and with a scowl that would vulcanize rubber, she sought out the number for Black Pawn Publishing. Luisa Sanchez, Gina's assistant, picked up on the second ring. Luisa was already done crying over the man who'd made sure her holiday bonus was increased 5% every year. She was mad as hell, and ready to help.

Gates had Karpowski phone Mr. Castle's building manager to tell him the situation. Let him know that there might be unusual activity around the loft, and if anything at all happened out of the ordinary, to call the police. The manager said, "Eduardo, the doorman, he was at the wedding. He called me from the bus, said they passed the crash site. The bus is high up, you know, and the folks on the driver's side saw the Rolls pulled over, and Miss Beckett standing there watching them put the fire out. In her wedding dress. Everyone was just devastated."

Karpowski said, "Excuse me, can I put you on hold for just a sec?"

"Sure."  
She pressed the button and kicked over her trash can with a string of expletives. The entire 12th Homicide turned and looked at her gravely. She glared around at them. "Don't mind me. I'll tell ya later." She picked up the line again. "Sorry to keep you holding, sir. I'll make sure we get extra eyes on the building, just in case."

His voice was rough. "Mr. Castle's a real good guy. I hope he pulls through ok."

Karpowski nodded at the phone. "Me too, sir. Thanks." She hung up and put her face in her hands. Gates told her to take a break.  
***

Around 5 pm, Gina checked out with Martha, Alexis, and Aunt Teresa, whom they had invited to stay. "I know this might sound weird," Gina said, "but I have to go back to the city to do damage control."

Teresa smiled a little mischievously, remembering the catfight. "You're Richard's other ex-wife?"

Gina nodded. "And his friend." They shook hands.

"Teresa Beckett."

Gina smiled politely, then she hesitated. "Unfortunately, I'm also his publisher and... he has a lot of fans. Some of them are harmless, some of them are a little bit nuts, and a very few have proven to be dangerous." She pulled out a business card. "Alexis, honey, I know I'm probably not on your speed-dial anymore. But..."

Alexis raised her eyebrows kindly. "Actually, you are. Sometimes you're the only person I can trust to nag Daddy when he's on the road." They exchanged a smile.

Teresa reached out a hand for Gina's card. "I'm retired now, but I used to work in marketing and public relations. I'll refer any press to you if they think the police aren't releasing enough information. Otherwise, no comment."

Gina nodded. "Thanks. And, please, if Captain Gates, or Kate, if anyone needs help, has questions, they'll have Black Pawn's full cooperation. My staff's already on it."

Alexis hugged Gina, and Martha put her arms around both of them. Meredith stomped by, pouting, with a full bag of trash on the way to the garage where the bins were kept. Slamming that old bag into the bin felt really, really good.

When she came back in, Gina was holding Meredith's overnight bag. "You're coming with me."

Meredith's mouth formed a hard line. "No way in hell." She looked over at Alexis and was shocked at her daughter's folded arms and stubborn pout.

"It's either with me or on the bus," Gina said.

Alexis tried to smile at Meredith. "I'll be all right, Mom. I'll be in touch if anything... You know." Her chin trembled. "Please."

Meredith looked around at the mix of repressed emotions on everyone's faces: anger, irritation, annoyance, confusion, and below that, fear and grief. Meredith felt the same, but without an audience, she had no idea what to do with it. She threw up her hands in defeat and turned to Gina. "Clearly I'm not wanted here."

Nobody argued the point. She kissed Alexis gently on the cheek, and touched Martha's arm, felt the older woman shaking with exhaustion under her fingers, then took her bag from Gina. "All right, let's go."

5.2 miles away and twelve feet down, Rick Castle peered up into the darkness, pressing down on his watch light switch once more, just to be sure what he saw.  
"Hey there, little guys," he croaked. "Aren't you stinky."  
When he was small, his fascination with all things Halloween had led him to learn everything he could about bats. As an adult, his first charitable donation had been to Dr. Merlin Tuttle's organization, Bat Conservation International. Although his favorite bat was currently the Gambian Epauletted Fruit Bat, those adorable little _megachiroptera_ cream-puffs live in Africa. He knew enough about the locals to guess these were insect-eating microchiropterans, probably Little Brown Bats. Unless rabid, they were harmless to humans, and if he'd been worried about mosquitoes before, that was no longer a concern. These bats had probably had a terrible fright based on the explosion, but they seemed pretty calm, now. They'd probably been watching him sleep for a while and judged him unlikely to be a threat. They were right. He'd actually turned down an offer of barbequed fruit bat in Guam, although he had tried tarantula and found it rather like shrimp. With effort, he lit his watch up again. None of them seemed to be foaming at the mouth. He smiled and thought, _"It's the little things."_

He'd bought bat guano once through the mail to use in ill-advised high-nitrogen gardening experiments. Bat guano is dark gray-brown, granular and somewhat glittery when dry, sparkling with the undigested exoskeletons and wings of thousands of bugs. And it stinks like the worst kind of old pee, like when you get back from a 3 weeks' vacation and realize the last person using the bathroom forgot to flush. In fact it was the smell of the guano, not the pot plants themselves, that once tipped off a building super about the little farm Rick had started in the basement. That got the Rodgers family evicted, but had Rick only known, the super kept the plants and made himself $600 extra in cash that year, before he got arrested himself for growing and selling. So in the long run, Rick dodged a bullet. Had he been caught selling homegrown pot, there would have been no way he would ever have been allowed to follow Beckett, even though he was only fourteen at the time of his ill-fated farming experiment.

It occurred to Rick that the smell could have been worse. He sniffed the air again and remembered that somewhere at the other end of the tunnel, there had to be access to outside, allowing the powerful draft that had ripped through. Perhaps the bats had come and gone through both ends before the explosion, but for now, they were going to have to do with one entrance until someone dug the car out and wondered why there was concrete lining a big hole in the ground. His ears still ringing, he couldn't hear the bats' high clicks and chitters, nor the soft flutter of their wings. The soft bluish light of his watch caught no more than a blur of movement heading down the tunnel, away from the blast site. If he got moving, he might be able to make his way above ground. "Carpe tunnel," he quipped grimly.

He started to move and was seized with blinding pain. This was going to be harder than he'd thought: his right wrist shot to bits, his hand swollen, his damaged knee still not fully recovered in the fourteen months since his skiing accident, his hip aching from a stone bruise, his left ankle sprained... basically his upper left quadrant was the only thing not hurting him. Having been to too many weddings, he had insisted (despite its 'ruining the line of his pants') on each male in the wedding party carrying a 16" Pima cotton pocket handkerchief. Pulling it out, he folded it halfway into a triangle bandanna. Using his left hand and his teeth, it took him ages to tie its ends and get it placed properly as a dust mask over his mouth and nose. He hitched along a few painful feet through the piled bat poo, a layer of damp, ammonia-fuming crud frosting the crumbling layer below. The colony hadn't been there that long, so the guano was only an inch or so deep at worst, but moving through it – and he couldn't exactly get around it – left him choking and gasping. He couldn't even put his head down to rest. The damp guano felt like it was eating at his skin, stinging mercilessly on his numerous cuts.

He sighed, and then struck with a thought, he grinned wildly, misquoting Christopher Marlowe's "Faust":

"_Are these the bats that launch'd a thousand shits, _

_and burned my skin while bruis'ed was my ilium?" _

Giggling, a little hysterical, he hitched another foot or so further and wiped his eyes with the back of his filthy jacket sleeve. His giggle turned to something like a sob. His left triceps cramped as he dragged himself another few inches. He stopped to raise his head for a breath and gritted,

"Damn you, Marlowe."


	6. Chapter 6

Trigger alert: suicidal thoughts, angst, and despair.

But it gets better, and there are Very Good Dogs. You'll be ok.

**Too Soon Part 6**

**Going To the Dogs**

_I have kissed honey lips  
Felt the healing in her fingertips  
It burned like fire  
This burning desire  
I have spoke with the tongue of angels  
I have held the hand of a devil  
It was warm in the night  
I was cold as a stone  
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for - U2_

A news helicopter circled over the crash site, zoomed in on the side of the road and the nearly-extinguished flames, the preliminary discoveries and the bride. The reporter, relentlessly perky in a _"WSHT All News All the Time"_ windbreaker, said, "We're in the Hamptons, hovering over the site where a solo car jumped the curb and is currently engulfed in flame. The car allegedly contained local auth... hey, is this thing on?" She heard an intense screech of feedback in her headphones, as did the pilot and cameraman.

"We've lost signal," the pilot said. "I need to get this thing back to the pad..."

"Why?"

"Power glitch." His face had gone white. "Probably nothing serious, but make sure you're strapped in." Hastily the pilot returned to base and the news crew disembarked. When the cameraman reviewed his footage, he found that some kind of power surge had erased the file.

For some reason, over the next 14 hours, a 5.5-mile radius around the area was something of a dead zone for the media, although regular phone transmissions weren't disrupted. The local emergency personnel were able to communicate just fine, as was Kate's team. It drove the techs crazy, but nobody ever figured out what was happening. It certainly helped cut down on the feeding frenzy.

So Jackson Hunt, even in secret from five miles away, was good for something after all.

***  
Petros groaned and rubbed his eyes, figuratively speaking, and addressed the white light. "Lord, it's like the opening scene of It's A Wonderful Life out here. What's an angel to do?"

_NOT ALL PRAYERS ARE ANSWERED. MOST PRAYERS ARE ANSWERED NO._

"But..."

_HE HAS TO WRITE HIS OWN ENDING. IT'S WHAT HE DOES._

Castle flitted in and out of conshiz. Consciounsness. Consciousness. He sort of woke up, he thought.

Petros came to him and frowned apologetically. "That's a lot of blood," he said.

Rick glanced down at his hand and found one of his eyes was stuck shut, also with blood. He spat on his sleeve and scrubbed at it a little, working it loose. "At least it dried up," he smiled.

Petros smiled too. "Always on the bright side."

Rick shook his head. "It's dark in here. Why can I even see anything?"

"We're moving faster than the speed of light, so light itself isn't a problem."

"You're giving me a headache."

"Oh, that's a gift you gave yourself. Do you have any idea how long you've been down here, Richard Alexander the Great Edgar Allan Nathaniel Poe Castle Keep on Truckin' in the Free World MisterRodgers and Hammerstein?"

"Ten minutes, three hours, overnight. Forever. Time is relative."

"Exactly," said Petros. "Only in this case, the relative is a psychotic brother who just seriously fucked up your wedding plans."

"That's what brothers are for, right?"

"Wrong, my son. Dead wrong. Your brother was your enemy. Time is your enemy, too."

"Frenemy. Bromeny. Brony. Irony?" And Rick passed out again, for the rest of the chapter, so don't go looking for him someplace you won't find him.

Standing on the curb up above, after Lanie's announcement that the body at hand was not Rick's, Kate was seized by a mix of elation and renewed desperation. "We need to organize a search..." she began. "Fan out..."

Ryan stopped her. "Yes. But you need to go back to the house. You need to change, eat something, get some rest. There's nothing you can do here that can't be done by others, and you look like you're about to pass out."

"Don't you tell me what I _need_." Kate pulled out of her father's grasp and stepped toward Ryan, her face white with desperation, puffed into anger. "Don't you think for a minute I can't handle this."

Sheriff Kloskins had notice the confrontation and stepped up to the plate. "Detective Beckett..." he began.

"Stay out of this!" she blazed.

"Excuse me?" He raised a shaggy eyebrow at her, but his voice was mild. "I just spoke with Captain Gates. She's offered your team at my disposal while we figure out what's going on and determine our course of action. I need all of you at your best, and although I don't know you, I'd say you're not at your best right now."

Kate held back a sob. "Please... I can't..."

Kloskins continued. "The night before our wedding, my wife barely slept. She'd hardly eaten in days. We got in the limo to leave for our honeymoon and she was asleep and drooling on my monkey suit before we even hit the interstate."

Ryan nodded. "Jenny fell asleep in the tub."

Jim put his arm around Kate's shoulders, giving her a squeeze. "Katie, your mother was the same. And you've already had a hell of a time over the last few days."

Kate hesitated. She felt dead on her feet. Dead. What if Castle was actually dead?

Where was his body? Her brain started up again, and Ryan could see the wheels spinning.

He chipped in: "Beckett. We'll find him. You'll be the first to know if we get any sign at all."

She stared down at the car, Lanie and Esposito far below. Esposito had his arms around Lanie, and Kate could tell she was crying. Her heart went out to her courageous friend, who had come through for her so many times and once again stepped up to help. She had to trust them again.

"Ok," she sighed. "I'll be back in three hours."

Kloskins' voice was sharp. "It's 4 pm. If you don't hear from me tonight, be back at dawn. We'll want your eyes on the ground, and those eyes will need to be rested. You understand?"

Ryan was impressed. This genial man had morphed from Barney Miller to Iron Gates' brother-from-another-mother.

Kate nodded. "Dawn." Her heart fell from her breast onto the ground, and she kicked it all the way back to her father's car.

***

Jim talked quietly over the short drive back to the estate. "Katie, I know this feels like too much. I know you feel like you've hit bottom. But you will make it through today, and tomorrow, and the next day, with or without Rick's physical presence in your life."

She was unable to answer him. "_I have nothing left," _she thought.

Jim said, "Right now, you're powerless. It feels like hell, but that's what you need to accept so you can build your strength back up. You will find your way in this. You will get the help you need to get through."

"You really believe that, Dad?" Her voice was hollow.

His eyes were sad, but he smiled a little. "No. They just tell me I have to act as if I believe, and that more will be revealed."

"That's sort of hypocritical," she grumbled, and looked out the window as they approached the driveway. Truth was, at that moment everything felt impossible.

Jim chuckled humorlessly. He'd lost his own wife to violence, and it had nearly destroyed him. He knew that from his daughter's point of view, nothing was workable. "Believe me, I understand, it's made me want to kick things. Doesn't matter. It's just a method for dealing with madness. It works." She said nothing. She knew he needed to hold onto positive thoughts, to belief, to keep his sobriety. But the platitudes drove her a little crazy.

She stalked into the house, not wanting to face anyone. But everyone was there at the door, crowding her. She hugged Alexis and Martha briefly. She wanted to have something more to say than "He wasn't there. There's a body, but it wasn't his."

Alexis nodded. "Lanie called ahead. But I like to hear you say it."

Martha and Alexis clung to her, their weight and desperation bringing up a need to run, a claustrophobia.

Martha's anxious eyes searched hers, and Kate could feel the older woman trembling. "You're sure?"

"They wouldn't let me ID the body, but Lanie knows enough... she says it's not him, and I believe her, all right?" she sighed. "Look, I just need to be alone." She extricated herself, pushed past while Martha and Alexis wept. Teresa hugged Jim/

Jenny bounced the baby joyfully. "See, Sweetie? That's one good thing." Sarah Grace cooed and blew spit bubbles, heartily agreeing.

The bride and groom had intended to stay the night at a local B&amp;B's bridal cottage, making love and noise and promises and messes and plans. Kate thought of going to the B&amp;B by herself, needing to decompress away from prying eyes and pitying voices, but a part of her said, "Stay. It's closer here. This is his place - our place. Part of him is here."

When she'd been locked in for twenty minutes or so, Jim knocked with a tray of food and drinks. "I know you don't want to eat, but you need to," he said. She took the tray, not arguing, and set it aside.

"Would you like company?" His face was furrowed with concern.

"No, Dad. In fact I think everyone should go back to the City." She wanted to be alone. The only person she wanted was Castle, and he was out of reach.

He chuckled humorlessly. "That's not the way it works with these people, Katie. They love you. They love Castle. And this is their home too."

"There's nothing I can do for them here."

"They're here for you anyway. They're here for Rick. They're here for each other. They're family, and you need to accept that. You are not alone anymore."

He was right. Rick and Kate had invited their close circle of family and friends to stay on through Monday, with intention of enjoying the pool and beach while the newlyweds caught a flight to their honeymoon. The house had six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a study with a double foldaway bed, so there was room for everyone. They stayed because they wanted to help each other. They stayed because they hoped. But for the most part, they stayed because they loved Rick, loved her, loved one another.

"Ok, Dad." She closed her eyes, then tried to give him a convincing smile that utterly failed. "I'm gonna try to eat something, take a nap. Wake me if there's a change, ok?"

He nodded. "Just let us know if you need anything. And Katie? Keep breathing." When she closed the door, he went and found a small chair and his blue book, brought them to the hall next to her door, sat down, and read, waiting.

Kate was seized with restlessness, pacing around the room, seeing nothing in her mind but a flaming car at the bottom of a ravine, the head and shoulders of a burnt body visible beyond its fender. "It's not you. It's not you, Rick. If not... who is it? Where are you?" She was swamped with a rage and a sick despair, breathless and shaking, so scared, sweating. Too much emotion poured into too small a space. She simply could not get through this. Even if Castle lived, if he was all right, she knew the trauma would take its toll on both of them. She was never going to trust anything again, when any moment the world could be torn to pieces around her. Whispering, "_Enough!_" she took her service pistol out of the gun safe, loaded it, and put the barrel under her chin.

She sat on the floor on the soft rug before the fireplace, right where they'd made love so many times since their first visit here together. In a Shakespearean sense, she'd 'died' here many times, as had Rick. The deaths she'd felt here, small yet mind-alteringly pleasurable, had helped heal them both, little by little. Each session of lovemaking better than the last, mending the cracks, smoothing the sharp edges of distrust and disappointment that still sometimes came up as each tried to believe they were worthy of the other. She'd felt so out of place when he brought her here the first time. Intimidated that this house, this place, this beauty was above and beyond her, and that so was Castle, so loving and warm and gentle.

She'd thought that with her walls of glass and stone, she could never be worthy of such a man. Maybe this horrific turn in their lives proved that she wasn't worthy after all, that some kind of fate had decreed they could never have what they loved and wanted together. And now perhaps he was literally beyond her, or far away beyond a search and a fight and long recovery, again. _Not again. No more of this. I'm too tired. I'm sick of caring._ And all she had to do was pull the trigger...

After the body had been bagged, Dr. Dinkmeyer accompanied it to the morgue and set about further testing. Emotionally exhausted, and worried about her friend, Lanie asked Esposito to take her back to the house.

Kate had locked herself in the master suite, and Alexis was sitting vigil by the bedroom door, typing rapidly on her laptop, tears streaming down her face. Lanie whispered, "Hey, Alexis."

Alexis closed the laptop, wiped her eyes, patted Lanie's arm. Lanie looked like she'd been in an accident herself. Her dress was muddy and littered with bits of weeds and plant material, she smelled like a refinery, and the skirt was torn where she'd slipped on the embankment returning to the road. But she smiled gently. "Where's Kate's dad?"

"He found a 6 pm AA meeting in town. Asked me to spell him for an hour." She started to pull out her phone, but Lanie stopped her.

"Good. We can all use a break." Lanie knocked, raising her voice. "Kate Beckett, I have a hairpin and I know how to use it."

Kate dragged herself out of the numb, suicidal haze, and concealed the gun behind an arrangement of seashells.

"Not now, Lanie."

A scratching noise came from within the lock, and Kate sighed.

"Ok, Sweetie, I'm comin' in." Lanie smiled at Alexis. "Go collapse a while, Honey. I got this." The lock gave easily. When she walked in, Kate stood with her back to the door, still wearing her wedding dress, holding a fist-sized seashell in one hand.

"Kate?"

"Yeah."

"You have to take care of yourself. This situation could turn on a dime, you know that."

"And if he's dead?"

Lanie took a deep breath. "Then you still have to take care of yourself. Do what he can't do."

Kate collapsed on the floor in sobs, her skirts belling out around her like a cloud. Lanie didn't come down, but Kate leaned against her muddy green skirt, and Lanie stroked her hair a few minutes, just letting her cry without a word. She started pulling out Kate's hairpins and uncoiling the chestnut locks. "Now here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna get cleaned up, get a little rest. The local coroner's got Esposito watching his back in case anything gets weird, and Ryan's at the crime scene. You have to just let go for a little while, and then when you're fresh, you can grab the steering wheel again. Mkay?"

Kate nodded, and Lanie helped her up. Kate set the seashell beside the fireplace.

Lanie helped Kate undress, first from the elaborately buttoned gown, then the back-laced corset and stockings she'd worn underneath. She sighed in both appreciation and grief. It was unnecessary and gorgeous, cream silk and lace. Castle would've gone nuts over it. And it was also permeated with smoke and the bitter sweat of fear. Kate shuffled into the bathroom to scrub the stench of burnt rubber and paint and plastic off her skin and hair. She took nearly an hour in there, still crying, with Lanie knocking every fifteen minutes or so.

"Just making sure you haven't washed yourself down the drain," she said.

"I just threw up, but the rest of me won't fit," Kate called out wryly.

"God, you poor thing." Lanie could smell the smoke still on her own clothes, and on Kate's beautiful dress. She texted Alexis. _"Can we get these smoky clothes outside to air?"_ Alexis knocked a moment later, and Lanie handed out both Kate's dress and her own, plus a bag containing Kate's underthings. Like her dad, Alexis knew it was the little things that help people feel better: she handed Lanie her suitcase, which Esposito had brought in from the car. "Maybe there's a change of clothes in here for you?

Lanie smiled gratefully. She hadn't thought that part out yet, and was clad only in a sexy black slip she'd planned to reveal to Javi later that night. It wasn't gonna happen now. "Hang the dresses up by the pool to air out in the breeze. We'll send them to the cleaners tomorrow morning," Lanie said.

Alexis hesitated. "She won't want to wear it again."

"She won't want to smell it like that, either. Trust me."

Alexis nodded. "Thanks, Lanie." She took the armful of clothing and wrinkled her nose. "You're right, that's awful."

Nightfall crawled toward midnight before Rick had even started crawling toward fresh air. Back at the Hamptons estate, it was a house full of emptiness.

Martha had not given in to the siren song of booze, surprisingly, but Lanie phoned down to the local pharmacy and ordered up sleeping tabs for whoever might need them. Nobody wanted to eat, despite the immense pile of food that had been prepared for the wedding, and that had been expected to last the next day and night as house guests would have come and gone. But Teresa made up a light buffet anyway, and everyone talked everyone else into eating a few bites that seemed to revive the spirit even though it felt like lead in their stomachs for a while. Now the food was designated for any law enforcement who might come to pitch in on the search for Rick. He had crashed only five point two miles away, as the crow flies.

Five point two and a million miles away, and two hours later, the crime scene had been staked, the body removed, and Ryan stayed on his post as the burned-out Mercedes, now cooled enough to handle, was combed over by the local forensics team. They found Rick's burned wallet on the seat, everything melted together. The bullet from Tyson's gun was lodged in the dashboard, having passed through the back window.

Ryan was still wearing his tux. He looked over at the sheriff, who was munching on a sandwich. "Any word on the dogs?"

"They're another twenty minutes out," Kloskins replied.

Ryan nodded. "Thanks." He went up to the roadside, wanting to clear his head and lungs. A state trooper pointed to a small car, approaching slowly in the darkness. "Looks like reinforcements."

Ryan saw the driver and whispered, "Oh, no."

Alexis Castle pulled her car over and hurried to Ryan. She looked small, pale, so fearful. "I thought you might want some dinner." She was carrying a bag and a travel cup of what turned out to be coffee.

He hugged her, and took a sip. "Thanks," he said.

"I kind of sneaked away... should have asked Jenny how you take it."

"It's perfect." He looked at her piercingly. "Nobody knows you're here?"

Her voice was barely audible. "They told me not to come. I pretended to do some cleanup outside. They won't miss me for a little while."

"You are your father's daughter." Ryan scowled at her, but it was more sympathetic than anything. He patted her shoulder. "Better to apologize than ask sometimes, but they need to know you're safe." He texted Esposito and Jennny: _"Alexis here crime scene with me. She's ok. Let M &amp; KB know"_

Javi texted back almost immediately. _"Typical Castle."_ Ryan read that to Alexis with an encouraging grin. She smiled back wanly.

Ryan replied to Esposito: "_Sniffer_ _Dogs arriving in 20. How's KB?" _

_"__Good. no more bodies so far. Stopped in 2 change &amp; eat a bite. Back soon. Lanie's w/ KB in her room. Gave her sleep pill." _

_"__Good,"_ Ryan texted back. _"Almost hope this is kidnap even w/FBI. Looks bad here. Local cops have eye on house?"_

_"Chief Brady stationed an unmarked in front. Took statements &amp; left about 9pm. FBI will come in AM if kidnapping."_

_"Good. L8r."_

Alexis' anxious eyes scanned the woodsy landscape, lit harshly by the floodlights around the crime scene. She gazed down at the Mercedes forlornly. The last time she'd ridden in it was on her way back from the airport when her dad came to get her and Pi at the airport. Castle didn't take it out much in the city, and she'd been so busy with her stupid boyfriend to spend time with him. Too busy being mad over nothing. Regret settled on her face like a gill net over a school of dolphins, the emotions trapped and twisting. "There was no body in the car?"

Ryan shook his head. "Nor under it, that we've been able to discern."

Her shoulders rose up around her ears and she shivered, although the night was still warm. "God, where is he, Detective Ryan?"

"Maybe we'll find out soon." His stomach rumbled, and he rummaged in the bag. "You mind?"

"Go ahead." The sandwich was cold but delicious: some kind of salmon and dill mousse, light and lemony, with lettuce and capers on mini ciabatta. It came with a side of chilled asparagus spears dressed with salt, pepper, olive oil and balsamic. A dessert of figs stuffed with goat cheese and almonds. They hadn't had the heart to cut the cake up.

He grinned. "Hell of a caterer."

"I helped pick the food out. Daddy wanted to go rustic with beanie-weenies and mac and cheese. Stick to his roots."

"Cooler heads prevailed."

She nodded. "Daddy's trial run of the S'mores Wedding Cake was..." her face wobbled between tears and a smile. "Well, it was a worse nightmare than this, but just barely."

Ryan grinned. "How so?"

"Oh, he made a 25% scale model, so it was only about ten inches tall." She smiled a little. "Graham cracker crumbs, chocolate cake, marshmallow frosting. He tried using his blowtorch to brown it, it caught fire, and Grams put it out with a bucket of half-melted champagne ice." She made a sorrowful little face. "Now I feel so bad for laughing at him."

Ryan chuckled sadly and pulled her in for another hug. "I... look, we don't know what happened. But I do promise we'll find out. We'll find _him_." He just stood there, holding half a fig, trying not to get goat cheese in her hair as she sobbed. "And you know what I think?" he added. "I think it's a lot of trouble to get a body up that embankment, and there's no drag marks, no other fresh vehicle marks. So either he walked up, or he walked away. Either way, I think that for now, he's alive. We just have to find him."

Alexis drew a deep breath and nodded. She (being a Castle) was always prepared; she pulled out a tissue and blew her nose with surprising force for such a delicate little peach of a girl. "I just want them to have their happy ending," she sighed.

A Canine Unit SUV pulled up. Sheriff Kloskins and Deputy Holst stepped up to meet the officers, then introduced them: Rufus Freeze and Muhammed Atah.

Ryan murmured to Holst, "That's an unfortunate name."

Holst shrugged. "Yeah, but he's a great guy. Don't hold it against him."

"'Course not."

Freeze said, "The nearest body-track dog is upstate right now on that serial case. But Betsy's got a great tracking record, and Wilbur here … he's still learning but unstoppable. You have a personal item?"

Alexis said, "Hold on," and ducked back into her car. "Thought you might need a clear scent. I took it off his bed this morning when we were setting up the house. We changed all the linens..." She had a lump in her throat. "I'm a forensics intern. Wasn't sure if the car would..."

Sheriff Kloskins smiled over at her. "You saved us a trip. Thank you."

She seemed at a loss for words, and he turned back to the other officers. "Let's meet those dogs of yours."

The bloodhounds were ugly, lovely creatures, all tongues and noses and wiggle and tails and ears and bloodshot, baggy, sad-happy eyes, so excited to be working, to be doing their jobs. They made friends with Rick's pillow case and their handlers guided them around. Betsy picked up Rick's scent both on Alexis and on Ryan, because _the man touches everything_, including Ryan's tux jacket. A hug, a hand on the shoulder, it all leaves a trace on the body as well as the spirit. Alexis wasn't sure whether to encourage them as they sniffed around her. Atah said proudly, "This is Betsy the Wonder Dog."

Freeze said, "And this is Wilbur. Just be still and calm. You can pet them after they've done their job. They need to work now." Alexis nodded. Betsy seemed to have figured out the difference between Rick and Alexis. The hound wandered back and forth, nose lifted then searching the ground, then lifted again, pointing down the embankment. Wilbur seemed confused, sniffing for awhile at Alexis, then Ryan, then the ground where unbeknownst to them, Jerry Tyson had left the Escalade and half-walked, half-slid down the embankment. Betsy, however, paid that no mind. Atah and Freeze looked at one another in puzzlement.

The dogs were eerily silent, canvasing across the crash scene, especially interested in the pile of burned leaves, snuffling and sneezing at the bits of cinder and ash. Then they started barking. They knew where the fight happened, they knew where the flare cap had landed at the base of the gooseberry bush (also that it wasn't there any more, since they didn't bother to push into its thorns). They were very enthusiastic about meeting the flare cap itself, although the sulfur smell must have been unpleasant for them. Only Wilbur showed the mildest interest in a man's size-12 dress shoe prints that went down and halfway back up the embankment before returning to the car. Betsy pretty much fell in love with Castle's clear print by the Mercedes' trunk, the one with the circle of melted plastic in the middle.

The dogs really wanted to go under the car. Wilbur was practically dancing. Betsy's nose and paws were blackened with oily soot, and she dug at the soil and leaves. She bayed once, a thrilling, primal sound. Then she yelped and pawed at her nose. She'd hit a hot spot. Atah bent over her. "You ok, girl?"

She snuffed and pawed at her nose again. He looked at her more closely. "Aw, Sweetie." He looked at Freeze. "You keep going with Wilbur, I'm gonna give her a little break."

Alexis and Ryan exchanged a horrified look. "Do you think he's under there?" she whispered, and added tightly, "There's no way he'd survive that."

"We don't know that yet," he sighed.

Sheriff Kloskins looked grim. "Let's tow it up and see what's under."

Ryan texted Esposito._ "Dogs indicate he's under car. Come get Alexis, bring Lanie." _

_"On it bro. 10 min." _

The tow truck had arrived an hour before, but the police had kept the driver waiting around. Because the car's tires had popped and melted, it was now on its rims. It wasn't going to be an easy haul, and unseen evidence might be destroyed in the dark.

Ryan turned his attention back to Sheriff Kloskins, who was arguing with Freeze. "It's so dark. We didn't have that much time to check the area before sunset... I'm afraid we might miss something."

Freeze shrugged. "Look, you know Betsy. She's almost never wrong. Some evidence under there."

"Yeah. _Almost_ never. For all we know he went under the car and changed the oil a day ago."

Ryan and Alexis exchanged a look. "No," Alexis called down. "My dad's good at a lot of things, but when it comes to auto mechanics... he's a hazard. He almost clocked himself trying to teach me how to change a tire." She smiled desperately. "Please. If he's under there..."

Sheriff Kloskins sighed. He could see it in her face, what they all knew. _"If he's under there, he's probably dead. But I have to know."_ Nobody said it. Kloskins rubbed his face and turned to the driver. "All right, bring the trailer down." He looked up at Ryan. "She needs to leave."

"No..." Alexis began.

Esposito and Lanie had just driven up. Lanie had changed from her beautiful emerald dress to jeans, a T, and a leather jacket; Espo likewise. She looked grim and sad. Esposito's face was like stone.

Kevin said, "Come on, Alexis. Let's take you back to the house for a while."

She jerked away from him. "I can handle this."

Esposito let Lanie go down the embankment on her own. He took Alexis by the shoulders, gazed at her deeply, his brown eyes shining. "No. This you can't handle. Your grandma needs you. Beckett needs you. And you don't need to see it, whether he's there or not. You don't need to see it. Okay?"

Alexis' chin trembled, and her eyes spilled over with tears. Javi hugged her briefly. "Be strong, Corazon. We'll know a lot more in an hour or so."

Ryan took her arm and led her back to her rental car. She meekly handed him the keys, and he drove her back to the house. The lower floor was mostly lit up, the upstairs dark. A single candle shone from the window of the master suite. Alexis said, "I hope Kate's sleeping."

They walked in to the sound of Ryan's baby Sarah Grace, fussing. Martha was walking her around the great room, and smiled half-apologetically. "Jenny was so tired, and I couldn't sleep anyway."

Kevin grinned. "Thanks, we were up most of last night and Gracie probably didn't get much of a nap." He peeked in at the little pink face against Martha's shoulder. "Looks like she's almost out." The baby's hands batted in the random, uncoordinated motion of pre-sleep. None of them wanted to talk about the crash. Castle's absence hung over them like black cobwebs, ready to ensnare them and crush the air out of their lungs.

"I can really use some hot chocolate," Alexis said, a little too cheerfully. "Anyone else?"

Martha nodded thanks, but it was more to give Alexis something to do than because she wanted anything.

Kevin said, "I'd like to clean up and change before I touch her, you mind?"

Martha smiled and shook her head, "Not at all," holding the baby as much for her own comfort as Gracie's. Kevin hit the shower for a quick rinse-off then dressed in sweats in case they got a call, so he could hit the ground running. Jenny, who'd lived in a perpetual state of exhaustion since Gracie's birth, didn't even twitch as he quietly came and went.

Alexis set to work, making the cocoa Castle-style: Extra Everything. The baby had gone quiet. Ryan returned, refreshed and smelling much better. With elaborate care, he removed the sleeping Gracie from Martha's arms and carried her into the guest room where Jenny was out cold and sawing cute little logs. Arms feeling too empty, Martha kept pacing, and Alexis brought her up to date on the crash scene.

Kevin checked Gracie's diaper one last time and smiled ruefully. Wet, of course. They had converted a low dresser into a changing table, so he set to work cleaning and changing the baby as she slept through it. Then he picked her up, treasuring her soft, reassuring weight, looking down at her peaceful little face. With a pang of sympathy, he wondered how Martha and Jim must feel. Every moment of Gracie's life was precious to him, and he couldn't foresee that diminishing when she was ten, twenty, thirty, forty. How crushing it would be to face her premature death, or see her endure traumatic loss. She was already the center of his life, and she hadn't even learned to crawl yet. The baby stirred and whimpered, gripped his finger in her tiny fist, and he walked her around a little more, not wanting to let her go. He looked around the beautiful, softly lit room. So many pictures and mementos of Castle and his family and friends – a photo of Beckett's team on the beach last July 4, when Castle got that epic sunburn...

His attention was caught by the photos above the changing table. Martha had pointed them out to him and Jenny earlier in the day, when showing them their room. Before the crash. He'd looked at them idly a couple of times while changing the baby. And now he realized it: something wasn't right.

There were four black-and-white photos, matted and labeled with professional calligraphy, mounted in plain glass rectangular frames. One was of Meredith and Castle, a gorgeous couple in their early twenties. It was a pro studio shot. She was pregnant, with him behind her, his huge, protective hand on her belly. The second photo was of Martha, alone. It was a grainy but carefully retouched snapshot, her smile half-proud, half-reluctant – almost shy. Martha looked skinny, tired, and pale, and was wearing a spectacularly ugly maternity smock. That morning Martha had laughed about it: "Back then the pregnancy clothes were simply _appalling_. I had nothing to wear toward the end but this hideous pink thing... and you know there are rules about redheads wearing that color. I looked like a gumball. Richard wasn't born for another two months and I was already _enormous_!"

The second set of pictures was of mother and child: a pro shot of Meredith with Alexis, age 1 month; another grainy snapshot of Martha with Richard, age 1 month. Martha had said, "Someday we hope to have maternity pictures of Katherine and Alexis here as well."

Ryan blinked, remembering what Jenny had said: "My gosh, Martha, you're taller than me but your tummy was huge!"

Martha had laughed. "Oh, Richard was quite robust. Have I ever told you the story about how I gave birth..." and she'd gone on to do that, something about a subway and a blackout... and of course, April Fool's Day. It had been very entertaining.

Ryan peered more closely at the picture of Martha and her baby. _Robust?_ He was tiny! Smaller than Alexis, smaller even than Sarah Grace, who had been a little early. How had Martha been so big at seven months, and given birth to such a bitty little... "Huh." He set Gracie in her porta-crib and covered her with her favorite purple blankie. Returning to the kitchen, he found Martha alone, stirring the cocoa, her thoughts 5.2 miles away.

"Martha... look, we need to talk."

She looked up and knew from his expression that something was wrong. Her blue eyes went wide. "What is it? Is Richard..."

"No, no. I haven't heard anything. But I need you to tell me something. What happened at Castle's birth? What's the real story?"

Alexis, who'd used the bathroom, stepped back into the kitchen, looking puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

Ryan held Martha's gaze. "Because you've told the story so many different ways, and I look at his baby picture, and it doesn't add up."

Martha sat down, her face expressionless. She swallowed. "Alexis, darling. Please go and see if Katherine is awake. And Jim, too. I guess it's time."

"Gram?" Alexis' face was a study in puzzlement and the beginning of anger.

"Please."

Lanie had given Kate a sleeping tab after Brady left, and she'd been asleep for a few hours. Now Kate was lying on her stomach, moaning, her hands clawing at the sheets. She dreamed she was crawling through a tunnel, over and around and through body after body, in different stages of decomposition, through every kind of murder scene. Bodies were stuffed into mattresses, shoved into a wall safe, face down in water, coated in oil, frozen, hanging upside down. Some of them had been altered to look like Lanie, Esposito, Ryan. She found her own body, with every injury she'd ever received unhealed and festering, a hole in the heart spewing blood, tears still fresh on her own face. She crawled past every murder she'd ever investigated, and worst of all her mom's body, over and over again, leaning against a trash can as she rounded turn after turn. But the one she was looking for – dead or alive – eluded her. "Castle!" she sat up, awakened by her own voice. She was shaky and sweating, her hair still damp from her shower. She checked the time. It was after midnight, and a single tall candle, burning in her window, was the only light.

She got up, used the bathroom, rinsed her face and drank some water, and then she came out and sat back down by the fireplace. She switched on the light, dispelling the shadows of death that still clawed at her from dark corners of the room. Castle's absence was excruciating. The urge to hurt herself had passed for now, but the pain was stubborn. She found the gun again, intending to put it away, and now she remembered him showing her this lovely row of shells, and little labeled jars of sand he'd picked up from beaches all over the world. Each one with its own story. Moments he treasured, that he wished she could have been there for. She picked up the fist-sized pink conch he'd found on a beach in Cuba by way of Belize. "You can hear an entirely different ocean in this one," he'd smiled.

Now she held it to her ear again. She knew the sound wasn't that of the sea. Somehow, her heart was still beating, in spite of bullets and so many mistakes and wrong turns. Her heartbeat was reaching into the spiraled whorls, echoing around, creating magic as his heartbeat had drummed magic into her life. But it wasn't enough. She ached to hear the sound of his voice. As she twisted the shell away from the ear to set it down, something inside rattled. Maybe a pebble. She emptied the shell out into her hand. It was a little metal receiver. Someone had bugged their room. Sometime within the last two weeks.

It's not exactly that Kate smiled, but she bared her teeth like an animal. She looked around the room, guessing (rightly) that somewhere amongst the décor was a camera as well, although at the time, her actions were only being recorded, not viewed. On the other end of the transmission, Kelly Neiman – Rosie – heard Kate's clenched whisper on the scanner in a battered Subaru wagon, parked near a mini-mall 5.4 miles away. "I'm coming for you. Make sure you have plenty of rope, because you're gonna hang yourselves."

Alexis knocked softly. "Kate? Gram wants to talk to you."

"I'll be there soon."

Kate wasn't just talking to Alexis. She sang softly into the shell: "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when, but we will meet again some sunny day."

Under Kelly's curly red wig, cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck.


	7. Chapter 7

**TRIGGER WARNING:**

Martha reveals a childbirth loss. If this is a trigger for you, then by all means skip this chapter!  
I'll give a short synopsis at the beginning of chapter 8.

This was a difficult chapter to write, not only because there's almost no action,  
but also because of the subject matter. I had a traumatic pregnancy loss myself  
and generally avoid the subject in fiction 16 years after the fact.  
One never really gets over it, but writing has been a key tool in coping with it over the years.

***note:** if you have had a pregnancy loss such as miscarriage, stillbirth, abortion,  
or a child with birth defects, I'd like to recommend these two very helpful books:  
"Spiritual Midwifery" by Ina May Gaskin, and  
"Ended Beginnings" by Panuthos/ Romeo/ McMahon/  
If you've been affected personally by such a loss and would like to discuss it with me, please pm me.

I tried to stay true not only to Martha's personality, but also to the times in which she was living,  
and at the same time serve the purpose of the story.  
There is a little fun thrown in too, because she's reminiscing about Richard and he's always interesting to learn about.  
So it's not all darkness. Grab a hot drink, cup it in your hands, take a deep breath, and have a seat.  
The worst is actually over. :-) Now we deal with memory.

* * *

**Too Soon Part 6: Breaking Silence**

_There's a silence that comes to a house where no one can sleep  
I guess that's the price of love, I know it's not cheap  
Baby, baby, baby light my way  
Ultraviolet - U2_

* * *

Alexis's soft voice came through the door. "Kate?"

"I'm awake. Hold on." She opened the closet, put the gun in the pocket of Rick's black beach windbreaker, and whispered a single word to it: "Soon."

Kevin took out his phone and checked messages. He said nothing, giving Martha time to gather her thoughts but unwilling to let her off the hook. There was nothing new from the crash scene so far, but a text from Dr. Dinkmeyer at the coroner's office gave him pause: "_DNA from John Doe matches Castle's almost exactly. Given circmstances would've assumed it was him. Parrish kicked butt._"

He replied "_She's known for that._ _Any chance Doe is RC's brother?_"  
_  
"Either that or clone :-D"_ followed shortly thereafter by _"Sorry about the :-D no laughing matter spend too much time with stiffs."_ followed by _"sorry re stiffs comment. Dealing w/ rash of unrelated murders, got a full house &amp; understaffed."_  
_  
"You were beginning to sound like Perlmutter."_

Dinkmeyer responded, _"Did you see him crash site today? WTF?"_  
_  
"Dunno. Thought he'd be heading back on bus, musta called a taxi. Wanted to help?"_  
_  
"Yeah but hard to help if you're wheeling a love doll around with you. Said he couldn't get sitter short notice." _  
_  
"8-O omfg Gotta go keep me posted if anything new. Thx"_

* * *

Alexis returned a few moments later. "Lanie's dose had worn off, and she was..." Alexis shook her head mournfully. "Wide awake. She and Mr. Beckett will be down in a minute. What..."

Martha got up nervously and added more milk to the hot chocolate saucepan, then stirred in a squirt of chocolate syrup, some chocolate chips, and a capful of vanilla extract. She took out a mug and tried to pour the hot liquid in, but jumped at Alexis' insistent voice. "Gram, what's going on?" She set the pan down, trying to collect herself. Kate appeared a moment later, bundled up in Castle's oversized navy sweatshirt, pulling her loose hair into a ponytail.

"Ah. There you are, Katherine." Martha smiled shakily, then glanced at Ryan, who nodded encouragement. Alexis took over the hot chocolate duties, pouring four mugs, topping them with whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. No nutmeg. That was a Meredith thing.

Kate was white and wan, a ghost of the radiant woman she'd been that morning. She sat down at the stool next to Ryan and cupped the warm mug between her hands. "What is it?" Her voice was flat and weary, waiting for the next blow, speaking to no one in particular.

Ryan said quietly, "I'm surprised Castle never figured it out."

Martha said, "I think on some level he's always known. But not how far it has gone." She bit her lip, ashamed. "I'm just beginning to see the whole picture."

Kate shifted in her seat, and she closed her eyes wearily. "Can we cut the Martha Rodgers dramatics for once, please?"

Jim came in, looking sleepy. He looked around the group gathered there, and hesitated.

Martha wasn't even taken aback. "I deserved that," she said mildly.

Jim asked, "Is this a bad time?"

Kate patted the empty stool beside her.

Marth closed her eyes, somehow hearing Richard's encouraging voice in her head. "_Just tell the truth_." She opened her eyes and looked down into her mug as if it were tea leaves telling a fortune. "Richard had a twin. I thought he'd died at birth. Now I'm not so sure."

Ryan had been ready for it, but Alexis and Kate were both white with shock. Jim stretched and cracked his neck. "This family."

Ryan said, "The body found by Castle's car... similar size, identical clothing to his wedding outfit,"

Kate interrupted, an edge of terror in her voice, afraid of new information. "It's not him. Lanie said it's not him."

Ryan nodded. "That hasn't changed. But they took samples, and the lab found something weird. Lanie had them re-run the DNA profile three times. She found it in the system from... from the last time Castle was arrested. It's very similar to Castle's profile... Same mother, most likely the same father, but it's not _Richard_ Castle. Not Richard Rodgers, I should say." He glanced over at Martha. She had pressed her hands over her mouth, and her eyes brimmed with tears.

Kate pressed fingers to her temples, fighting to keep the roil of emotions in check. "And you know for _sure_ the body's not Castle's?"

"The dead man's wallet was destroyed in the fire, but he had the key to an Escalade in his back pocket." At Kate's questioning glance, he added, "They're running a trace on it now. Castle had injuries that didn't show on this body, had updated fillings... Also our John Doe showed traces of repeated childhood injuries, consistent with abuse."

Martha whimpered, "Oh, God."

Kate's eyes burned into Martha's. "How did this happen?"

Martha squirmed. She dearly wanted a glass of wine. Actually she dearly wanted to crawl in a hole and die. If she'd known that Richard had crawled in a hole and was close to dying himself, she would have rejected that idea out of hand. Either that or joined him.

Alexis was staring at her in suppressed rage. "Grandma..."

Martha continued. "I was over thirty. Still single, no living family, finally having made a name for myself as an actress. The pregnancy hit me so hard. I was sick, constantly nauseated, for four months. I was only able to conceal it for so long, then of course I was out of work as an actress. I got a low-paying job cleaning houses."

Alexis teased. "Come on, Gram, you haven't cleaned a house since..."

Martha had never spoken quite so harshly to her before. "_You've_ never wanted for anything. Richard made sure of it. And he did so because when he was small, we wanted for _everything_." Alexis shrank back, startled. Martha collected herself a little. "And you've made it worth the effort. You both have." She sighed. "Back then, before Roe Vs. Wade, a lot of women availed themselves of … gynecological care off the books, so to speak. Even with all the strides from women's lib, chances were my acting career was ruined, and as a general rule, most other careers I might have chosen as well. I thought hard about the stigma of becoming an unwed mother. I almost didn't go through with it..."

"Oh, Gram!" Alexis reached out an apologetic hand, wrapping it over Martha's. "Thank you for reconsidering."

Martha smiled and shrugged. She sighed gratefully at her granddaughter. "Best decision I've ever made. But I had no health insurance. No family. Richard's father had disappeared without even knowing I was expecting. And the pregnancy was a nightmare. I was sick, couldn't keep weight on, couldn't afford checkups... I stayed in touch with the... independent nurse practitioner I'd first consulted with."

Beckett frowned. "You couldn't afford a doctor?"

"No. I really couldn't. There's a huge difference, Katherine, between a cop's salary and benefits, and the income of an off-off-off Broadway actress."

Kate nodded, chastened.

Martha continued: "Betty took real joy in helping me get through to term. She was a decent woman, operating at tremendous risk to herself, and she offered the best services she could under the circumstances. She had... ended a lot of pregnancies." Martha gave a rueful little smile. "When I was eight months along, I went into premature labor and went to her place to have the babies. We knew I was having twins, and I simply couldn't afford the hospital stay and anesthesia that were considered required at the time."

Ryan's eyebrows danced a tango of puzzlement. "Anesthesia?"

Martha nodded. "Back then, mothers were routinely sedated, and birth often completed with forceps or C-section. It was standard at hospitals, and very expensive."

Jim nodded grimly.

Ryan grimaced. "I'm glad we planned for a natural birth. Made it easier on Jennie." He and Kate exchanged a genuine smile then, remembering Gracie's birth in the ambulance.

Kate patted his hand. "Sarah Grace was wide awake and ready to go."

Martha chuckled, "So was Richard. My water broke on the subway, and I barely made it to Betty's." She smiled shakily. "He flew out so fast he left skid marks."

"Gram!" Alexis cried, thoroughly embarrassed.

Kate grinned, thinking of Castle's propensity to slide around the floor in his socks. "He's gonna love hearing this." _Please, let him hear this. Today. _

Martha's smile faded. "Betty had another patient there at the time. Her name was Deirdre, an immigrant, fairly young. She was much further along, actually overdue, but her labor had gone on for hours already. Betty was going back and forth between us. Deirdre was clearly in withdrawal from drugs – what kind I don't know. But she was in a horrible state."

Everyone flinched.

Martha took a sip of her cocoa, her expression was far away and mournful. "I was still in labor after Richard was born – with his twin. My second bag of waters broke, and this labor was much slower. I was exhausted, already hemorrhaging. I must have passed out. When I came to, I was in the emergency room at the hospital. Betty had dumped us there and run, returning to help Deirdre. The emergency room took me in since I was in shock. Richard was there with me, and he was small but otherwise fine. Tiny, but so strong, his little fingers..." Her voice caught. She mimed the grip of a small hand on her index. "But they... they told me that was the only baby I was dropped off with." She pressed trembling fingers over her eyes. "I didn't even know if the other had been a boy or a girl. Never got to hold him, never got– never even got to see him."

"Oh, Martha," Kate murmured. "I'm so sorry."

Ryan wanted nothing more than to run back into the guest room and make sure Gracie was breathing. He checked his own emotions, damping back tears.

"I didn't even get to have a funeral for him. When I went back to Betty, she said..." Martha closed her eyes, and her mouth tightened in a hard line. "I'd been in the hospital for four days. She said his body had already been incinerated as medical waste."

Alexis gasped. Martha said, "That's just the way it was back then. She had to hide what she was doing from the authorities. I had no reason to disbelieve her."

Kate said gently, "And what happened to the other mom?"

Martha shook her head. "Deirdre? I only wish I knew more. I never forgot her face, of course. We bonded a little, since our beds were side-by-side in Betty's back room. About four years later I ran into her again. Now that I look back on it, I should have known."

Ryan tilted his head. "Why is that?"

"You understand this was before my career had completely recovered. I was still struggling to pay the bills, relegated to those roles for a 'woman of a certain age'." She rolled her eyes. "We lived in the Bronx with a couple of housemates and a herd of cockroaches." She shuddered. "I had Richard enrolled in a Head Start preschool for low-income children. He was doing so well!" She smiled. "I brought cupcakes in for his birthday." She glanced at Alexis. "No, I didn't bake them, I didn't want to be responsible for a mass poisoning." Amusement, borne of habit, flitted across Alexis' solemn face.

Kate's expression was a mix of impatience and fascination. Like mother, like son... would their own children be storytellers? Yes, damn it. They would. And she would _listen_. She said, "Go on, Martha."

"I didn't know, but Deirdre had just started her son there a few days before Richard's birthday. His name was Michael. He was a beautiful child – I'll never forget his face. Brown eyes, strong eyebrows, wavy brown hair. Angelic. Until he saw me."

"What happened?"

"Turns out April First was Michael's birthday, too. He took one look at me holding those cupcakes and started screaming. Just the most unholy tantrum. 'Those are mine! _Mine!_ It's my birthday!'" Martha kept her voice fairly low, so as to avoid disturbing Jennie and the other sleeping guests. But her body language conveyed a terrifying, unbridled rage. Then she added, "Deirdre tried to calm him down, and he pushed her away, and I still can't believe he said this, 'You're not my real mother.' Then he pointed to me and said, 'She is. She's my real mother.'"

Jim's eyes went wide with disbelief. Ryan said, "Whoa."

Martha nodded. "I knew in my bones that he was right. I just don't know exactly what happened."

Jim frowned. "I don't mean to insult your intuition, but how could he know? Newborns don't have the best eyesight."

Martha shrugged a little. "A family blessing and curse. My grandfather traveled with the circus as the Amazing Rodgini, doing memory tricks: he could read a page and recite it from memory, hear a story or song..."

Jim stared at her hard. "Johanna's pop was a magician. I wonder whether they knew one another back in the day?"

Martha grinned wryly, "I have no doubt. They were probably competing for the same jobs... anyway, the Rodgers clan are like elephants: we remember everything. No doubt descended from the great bards who never read or wrote, but learned entire epics word for word at one sitting. Birthdays, anniversaries, forensic facts, shopping lists, and of course scripts..." She looked at Kate. "Have you ever heard Richard say, 'I forgot'?"

Kate frowned, thinking back. "I must have."

"He was lying. All right, fibbing. He may get distracted, but he remembers _everything."_

Alexis grinned. "Well, sometimes he has to poke around in that junk-heap of his brain for awhile before it comes to the surface."

Beckett turned her moss-green eyes on Alexis. "You, too?"

"Not quite so intensely. I actually have to work to remember things."

Beckett pursed her lips. "Good to know." If they found Rick – when they found Rick – she was gonna make some babies with him, and if they had minds like steel traps, she'd want to be ready for that. When Rick said "I can't unsee that," he actually meant it.

Martha continued. "I remember lying in my crib, looking out at the moon." She arched an eyebrow. "Back in the Jurassic period, I believe."

Alexis said, "I remember hating strained-chicken-and-pea baby food."

Kate nodded. "Rick told me a story once about the nanny setting the couch on fire and him trying to put it out."

Martha chuckled. "Yes. He poured a glass of straight vodka on it. He was about eighteen months, but he was already obsessed with firemen, and deduced that was the correct course of action." She didn't mention the part about coming home to find the apartment full of smoke, the couch half-burned, and a note from the nanny: _"Ricky hit his hed, gone too Genarall ER." One story at a time, Martha._

Jim said, "So it's possible that Michael really did remember you. Perhaps Deirdre gave birth while Betty was driving you to the ER. Maybe your own baby appeared to have died, hers didn't make it, and she switched them when she realized Michael was alive."

Ryan added, "Like that baby who woke up hours later in the morgue fridge in Mexico a few days ago." The three women looked at Little Castle in a mix of amusement and horror. He shrugged. "Hey, it happens."

Beckett mused, "It's also possible that Betty knew, and Deirdre may not have. She might have thought she was doing you both a favor by swapping the babies. You wouldn't be burdened with twins, and if Deirdre had to face the guilt of losing her child to drug use..."

Martha nodded. "When she was in labor, Deirdre swore that if her baby lived, she'd never touch drugs again. She seemed very determined about that."

Alexis whispered, "What did you do, Grandma? After the cupcake tantrum?"

"I... I could tell Deirdre had gone back to using. Skinny, teeth in ruins, skin like paper... I was afraid to confront her. But it haunted me. So I went back to Betty's. She'd closed up shop and disappeared somewhere." Martha sighed, obviously ashamed. "Truth be told, I let it go. What was I going to do, hire an investigator? Go to the police?" She folded her hands, looking at Beckett and Ryan. "And yet here we are. The police finally came to me."

Kate found herself shivering. She took a sip of her cocoa. "You moved Rick out of the school."

Martha nodded. "But not right away." She rested her forehead in her hands. "Getting Richard into that preschool had been such a hurdle as it was, there was so much competition for very few openings. I avoided Deirdre and her little monster like the plague. I didn't want to pursue it. I didn't want..." she stopped. "I could barely handle Richard. And I could tell Deirdre was already afraid of her son – of _my_ son. I asked that the boys be kept separated as much as possible. But just a few days later, it became untenable."

Ryan said, "Go on."

"This boy, Michael. Richard came running to the preschool teacher, told her that Michael had killed a stray kitten he found in the play yard. Strangled it with a piece of string." Martha paused, a new grief on her face. Her child had done this. _Her child..._ "When the teacher came looking, the kitten was gone, and nobody else would admit to seeing anything. Since she'd never even seen the kitten, there was no point in believing the word of one four-year-old against another, no matter how precocious either one might be. Richard begged not to go back, but I didn't have any options. Afterwards Michael really had it out for Richard, just hated him."

Kate frowned a little. She could imagine Rick as a very sweet, curious little boy, impossible to dislike. She shook the image out of her mind, trying to focus on the story.

Martha added, "The preschool had one of those shoe-lacing contraptions in the classroom, you know the wooden kind with the little grommets?"

Alexis nodded. "We had one at my preschool, but it was plastic and all my shoes had buckles or velcro."

Kate closed her eyes. Her kindergarten had had one as well. Wooden, with candy-striped red-and-white laces...

"A few days after the kitten, their teacher checked in on them at nap time to find that Michael was trying to strangle Richard with the lacing. She caught it before physical harm was done, but Richard was terribly shaken up. I came and picked him up from school and we never went back."

Kate's hands had balled into fists. "Martha, was the shoelace green and white striped?"

Martha nodded tentatively. "That's very possible. But I didn't actually see it. You'd have to ask Ri-" She stopped, pressing her fingertips to her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

Beckett's voice belied her physical tension. "And how did Deirdre wear her hair?"

Martha smiled, puzzled. "It was long and straight, like cornsilk. A lovely natural pale blonde."

Alexis was staring hard at Kate's white face. "What is it?"

Ryan already had his phone out and tapped autodial. "Come on, Lanie. Pick up. Pickup pickup pickup..." He walked away backwards, his eyes on Kate.

Beckett whispered, "Our body's 3XK?"

He nodded, spoke with Lanie, confirming what the four cops had each privately suspected. "Yes. And they're brothers."

Martha's face went grey, her eyes fluttered, and she slumped in a faint. Her first real one, ever. Unglamorous, unceremonious, it would have looked utterly ridiculous on stage. Alexis caught her just before her head hit the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

**Too Soon Chapter 8: Dream Out Loud**

* * *

_And I must be an acrobat  
To talk like this and act like that.  
And you can dream, so dream out loud  
And you can find your own way out.  
And you can build, and I can will  
And you can call, I can't wait until  
You can stash and you can seize  
In dreams begin responsibilities  
And I can love, and I can love  
And I know that the tide is turning 'round  
So don't let the bastards grind you down._

_Acrobat - U2_

* * *

They took Martha and laid her on the couch, tucked a pillow under her knees and put a dampened paper towel on her forehead. She came out of it pretty quickly.

"Well," she woozed. "That was true Rodgers dramatics."

Alexis sat on the floor at her shoulder. "You're in fine form, Grams."

Kate was sitting at her hip, holding her hand. "Are you all right?"

Martha nodded. "I think the tranquilizer kicked in when I wasn't expecting it." She squeezed Kate's fingers gently. "You look a bit peaked yourself, Katherine."

Kate's lip trembled. "I just want this to be over... but it's a kidnapping. So we haven't even started."

Martha sighed. "We can pray he's still alive. I have joint access to several accounts, it should be easy to come up with ransom..."

Kate nodded, knowing in her heart that ransom wasn't even part of the equation. Whoever had Castle... they didn't want money. They wanted revenge. She said gently, "Ryan's in touch with the FBI. They'll head to the crash scene first, and interview us all in the morning." She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was analog, with illustrations of birds on the dial instead of numbered hours. When activated, it played a different recorded bird song at every hour. The sound was disabled due to being irritating as hell, no doubt one of Castle's _'seemed like a good idea at the time'_ purchases. On the upside, he knew how to identify the call of the Northern Mockingbird. "It's 1:40. So, later this morning."

Martha nodded. "Then we should all try to get some rest." She sat up slowly with Kate's help.

Tears started up in Kate's eyes. "I'd give anything... just to hear the sound of his voice."

"Me too." Martha pressed her fingers over her eyelids, trying to push tears back. She'd cried enough for one day.

Alexis got up and hurried to a bookshelf, took down a slim volume. "That's something I can do." She handed it to Kate with a wide grin.

Kate examined it, puzzled. "This is a romance novel." Then she opened it up. "A book on tape? How old is this thing?"

"Look at the back cover."

"As read by Claire Sainte Victoire..." Kate peered at the black and white photo of a middle-aged – woman? - in glasses, a calico dress, and a pretty floral bonnet. "Oh, my God." She actually laughed. "Are you kidding me? He looks like a cross between Barbara Cartland and Grannie Clampett."

Martha spoke dreamily. "But you know that's not what he sounds like. He did a public reading and told the audience to just close their eyes and listen. Mrs. Sainte Victoire sold almost a hundred copies that night." She grinned. "I was supposed to stand in for him, but I had laryngitis, so I had a friend do a Mrs. Doubtfire makeover on him."

Beckett giggled, reading the blurb aloud: "Mrs. Sainte Victoire just manages to skim the moist, pink, pulsing lips of decency. A surprisingly deep, funny, scathingly political read, topped with whipped cream and a farmers' market strawberry." She glanced around. "Is there even a tape player in this house?"

Martha chuckled. "The boy cannot throw anything away."

Alexis nodded. "He still has his first Mac in storage." She went back to the wall shelf and opened up a door that concealed not only a VCR but a record turntable, an audiocassette player and even a reel-to-reel tape player.

"Ryan said his storage unit's amazing, but he still doesn't want me to see it," Kate smiled. When Rick had been framed for murder, of course he'd let the police look through everything. Beckett had decided to stay out of it, letting Castle have at least some sense of privacy. She remembered that Jameson Rook had ghost-written romance novels, but this was new to her. She handed the first cassette out of four to Alexis, who popped it into the player and switched on the stereo. They heard a low hiss from the tape, followed by Richard Castle's mellow baritone.

"_Deep in Desire, by Claire Sainte Victoire. _

_Copyright 1998, Parti-Colored Publications, all rights reserved._

_Chapter One: Sylvia Atkinson couldn't put Manhattan behind her fast enough. In fact she already had a speeding ticket tucked into the sun visor of her brand-new burgundy 1972 Charger as she headed east on the LIE. She needed to get away from a memory that burned hotter than the 11 a.m. sun beating down on her steering wheel. Her divorce from Bill was final, and she was free, and goddammit, she was going to the beach, because Bill hated sand in his trunks. She was going to eat lobster, because it made him break out in a rash. And she was going to stay up all night doing something other than trying to block out Bill's drunken rants at his typewriter. She popped "Who's Next" into the tape player and cranked it up to full blast, screaming along to 'Won't Get Fooled Again.'"_

Together they listened to the entire chapter, Beckett sitting in an easy chair, arms wrapped around a large cushion just for its warmth and weight. Listening to the story – about a recent divorcee who flirts with a Vietnam vet whom she meets when he plays folk music in a local coffee house – was soothing and refreshing to their careworn spirits. They got to hear a different Richard Castle, younger and seemingly more romantic, or at least more innocent. The story was deceptively simple: Sylvia was on the rebound, Cade was on the make. They connected, distrusted the connection, and as the story developed the listener/reader could safely presume they would find it again, on their way to a happy ending in 200 pages or so. Eyes closed, faded into exhaustion, Kate finally fell asleep, pretending her head was on Castle's shoulder. It was the closest thing she'd felt to peace since the phone call.

Her friends and family trailed off to bed one by one. Alexis and Martha shared a room that night for the first time since Alexis had turned four. They both lay awake for a long time, trying not to listen to one another trying not to cry. Teresa Beckett had taken the extra guest room. Kevin took his smoke-stained tux outside on Lanie's advice, to hang it next to her emerald dress. He didn't notice that Kate's dress, which should have been there as well, was missing. He tucked in with Jennie for a few hours' well-deserved sleep. For the last time, Ryan checked his messages. Nothing from Dinkmeyer, nothing from Sheriff Kloskins.

The only note from Esposito: _"They're sending for a backhoe. Busted cement found under car. No ultrasound or air flow, but maybe a pocket if he's lucky. It'll be slow going." _

Ryan texted back: _"Dogs find anything else?"_

_"Nope. False scent burnt-down old foundation 1/8 mile away. Iron door bolted shut, some rust, undisturbed. Terrain Ultrasound not avail till Mon 9am"._

_"Fuck. Ok, setting alarm for 5am, call if anything changes or when FBI shows up."_

"_Think it's 3xk?"_

_"Yup. Gut Feeling."_

* * *

Still curled up sleeping in the living room, Kate stretched and turned over, slowly coming into awareness. Rick's voice was well into the story.

_"Cade was singing Danny's Song, and looked up from his guitar as Sylvia entered the coffee shop. She had cleaned up well from the afternoon's muddy disaster. She wore a deep-red, clingy wrap dress and heels, and her wild black hair was temporarily confined into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She gave him a quick glance and went to the counter, ordered hot chocolate with a shot of coffee liqueur, then sat at a little round table near the door, ready to escape if things got embarrassing. His song drew her in over time."_

Here, Rick's voice sang a capella. He rarely sang around Kate for some reason, but she loved his voice, strong and clear with a surprising hint of country twang. He sounded so tender, so wistful.

_...Even though we ain't got money  
I'm so in love with you, honey  
everything will bring a chain of love  
In the morning when I rise  
Bring tears of joy to my eyes  
tell me everything is gonna be all right..._

Kate's eyes started up with tears at the longing in his voice. This was her Rick, who'd hidden a gentle soul behind the mystery-writer-playboy facade. The tape went on.

"Sylvia_ leaned her chin on her hand, and the press of her arms deepened her cleavage, the liquid silver chain necklace rising slightly, surfing the swell of her breasts. Cade's nimble fingers missed a note. That hadn't happened during a performance in months."_

Rick's voice went low and seductive. Kate couldn't help smiling. Rick continued:  
_"He shot her a half-grin and wound the song down, paused, and looked at his play list. He'd planned to sing something silly – maybe "Smile Away" - which was a favorite because he could include the local regulars in the lyrics. Instead he sang Malvina Reynolds' "Turn Around":_

"_Where are you going, my little one, little one,  
Where are you going, my baby, my own?  
Turn around and you're two,  
Turn around and you're four,  
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door._

_This, of course, made tears come to Sylvia's eyes, because we were all children once. She'd she'd always wanted one of her own, but Bill wanted to wait till he'd published his first book. Ten years later, no book, no baby, because there's no such thing as the right time."_

A lump raised in Kate's throat. She vaguely gathered from listening in half-sleep that Cade had a daughter who'd died; but she knew that Rick himself was singing to Alexis. Johanna had sung this song to Katie as a child as well. Kate didn't even know Rick was aware of Malvina Reynolds. There was so much she needed to learn about this man, even after years. She'd been too damn busy running away.

Rick's voice was still reading at low volume on the tape.

_"As their eyes met over Sylvia's hot chocolate, Cade was certain of only two things: One, that he was too damaged by life for this brilliant, complicated, delectable woman. Two, that he greatly desired to take her in his arms and kiss that little smear of whipped cream off the tip of her nose."_

_End of Chapter Four. Please flip the tape to Chapter Five." _

Kate sat up and walked over to the tape player, and popped the cassette out. She went to the master bedroom and picked through her fiancee's clothes, discarding the sweatshirt and donning his black Henley and the windbreaker with his gun in its pocket. She double-checked that the safety was on, just to be sure. She opened her suitcase, already packed for the honeymoon, and put on dark jeans, socks, and lightweight hiking shoes. Found his set of spare keys and selected that of his restored Mustang convertible. On her way out of the house, she forced herself to eat a few bites, drank some water, and brought a bottle along with her, on instinct. Maybe she was dehydrated, because her mouth was so damn dry. Maybe she'd find Castle. Maybe he'd need a blanket and a sip of water. A bandaid, a kiss on a sore spot. Maybe he'd been blown to pieces so small a dog couldn't find him. Maybe she was completely delusional.

She opened the garage door, and checked the pockets for the local map. Montauk Highway 27, like every other suburban highway, runs interlinked with any number of frontage roads and side avenues leading off in every direction. Kate usually let Rick drive around here, just enjoying the view as the little hamlets and woods, strip malls, farm fields and beaches and ponds and strange little tourist attractions unfolded around her. So it was mostly a happy, tony, tree-lined blur, a landscape she hadn't really absorbed. Now she unfolded the map, which gave somewhat more context at a glance than her tiny phone screen afforded. She smiled triumphantly, poring over it as the garage door light beamed down at her.

The map was at least fifteen years old, and Castle had taken notes all over it: circles, arrows, exclamation points, question marks, and stick-figure sketches. The map had been turned into a sort of medieval-looking illuminated manuscript, and Kate was reminded how easily Rick had taken to interpreting the murder boards. "Lobster Shack Here." "Cade Meets Sylvia Here." "Rocks where Sylvia falls in." "D &amp; B's Grave." Blue and red colored-pencil arrows showed sleeper wave angles from rogue currents; the range of beams from the local lighthouses; prevailing winds. There was even a timeline at the bottom! "Sylvia born NYC 12/19/1943. Cade born Montauk 4/1/1946. S Married Bill 1962. Cade drafted 8/63, Cambodia 5/64. C wounded 8/66, discharged 10/66, diagnosed combat fatigue 12/66. C marries Dannielle 2/68. Bethany born 9/25/69. C&amp;D divorce 5/70. D &amp; B drown, 9/4/70, C goes into rehab 9/7/70, S divorces Bill 4/16/73, C&amp;S meet 6/2/73." Kate murmured, "This isn't a romance, it's a soap opera, Castle." Date after date, sometimes hour by hour, the characters and situation were outlined, leading up to Sylvia discovering her younger lover ferrying draft dodgers to Canada to appease his own demons. Rick's firm handwriting: "Real love is worth risking everything."

Kate grinned. "Spoiler alert."

She took her heart in her hand, looked at today's crash site on the map, and there it was, a little X. It was so small, written in pencil, a bit smeared with that graphite sheen that made it hard to see in the rather dim light. There was a tiny, simple drawing, too: a saltbox cottage in what was now a nature preserve between the Montauk Highway and Sagaponack Road. Rick had written "Way Station/ Bomb Shelter/ Converted Wine Cellar. Explore as set piece." That had been lined out, replaced with a single "!"

"That's almost too easy," she frowned. She popped the cassette into the player, and cranked it up full blast as she started up the Mustang and pulled it out into the driveway. As the sunrise began barely to lighten the sky behind her, she headed southwest, mightily enjoying her fiance's description of the Cade and Sylvia's shared erotic demolition of a lobster roll as she made for Sagaponack Road.

* * *

•

Rick laid his forehead on his arm, exhausted and coughing. He thought back for inspiration from one of his favorite TV shows, cancelled too soon. _"If you can't walk, crawl. If you can't crawl, find someone to carry you."_

He was so tired. _So fucking tired_, and crawling indeed, with mites he'd picked up from the bat guano. He gritted his teeth. "If you can't find someone to carry you, just keep hitching your way through the shit till something changes." Not exactly poetic, or even succinct. His head sank to his arm again. The fumes were overwhelming. His eyes started to close.

Up ahead of him, sitting on the floor petting his codfish/piece, Mephistopheles cleared his throat, and Rick raised his head. A bare silhouette of light was glinting off the horns. The demon scritched the lap-codfish behind its gills and suggested, "Hitch your wagon to some shit?"

Rick struggled forward another six inches and stopped to rest again. The demon had receded, like a mirage or remarkably ugly rainbow, the same distance from him as before. Rick said, "Shut up." This time, his outreaching left hand found only the thinnest layer of poo on the floor. Another eight inches, and he was definitely down to a fairly smooth layer of dust. He was almost out, at least enough to find a place to lay his head down for awhile, and that was really something to look forward to. Six inches. Rest. Four inches. Rest. Castle's prone reach was a little over eight feet from up-stretched fingers to toe tip.

Meph chuckled. "You're leaving a nice trail there."

He kept going. It took a long time to get his entire body clear of the guano pile, and of course the demon was right, he'd dragged a trail along with him. He finally let himself stop, sat up as well as he could, and tore the unspeakably filthy handkerchief off his face. He was seized with a desire to throw it as far away as possible, but realized that there could be another bat colony further down the tunnel, and he might need it again. The thought made him even dizzier and sicker than he already felt. He shook it out and folded it into his pocket, with the sad understanding that there was almost no difference between the clean and dirty sides. Sitting up, he could feel something like a cool breeze, and realized that the tunnel, exiting at southeast, might even face the dawn. He lay back down, for just a moment's rest, and closed his eyes.

Meph was there again. "Did you ever wonder why the last thing at the bottom of Pandora's box was hope?" he leered.

"Oh, I'm sure you're gonna tell me," Rick croaked.

"Because it's the greatest evil of all. Makes humans do all kinds of stupid things. Wishful thinking. You should've let Kate Beckett walk away the day that first case ended."

"Why's that?"

"Well, really. If you're so good at getting into a murderer's head, how much further is it to..."

"Shut up."

"You've heard the testimonies. _'I just grabbed the knife. I just pulled the trigger. I was so mad. I didn't realize what I was doing. It just happened. I was in a daze. I was so scared.'_"

Rick said, "It's dissociation. It's common. Soldiers in battle..."

"What will you say when you testify in court, Rick? ' I thought he was going to kill me first.' _Right_."

"It's true."

"Are you kidding? He was toying with you. You had plenty of time to run away. He was your brother, _and you both knew it_. He'd still be alive if it weren't for you. You goaded him into a fight because you were scared he'd just take you somewhere and torture you. Will you tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Didn't it feel good to beat the living shit out of him? Didn't it feel good to watch the flames spill over his body? Didn't it feel good to hear him scream?"

Rick paused, sick with shame, whispered, "Kind of."

"The truth, Rick. Where there's a light... there's a shadow."

"Yes, but..." He moved his right hand and it knocked against a piece of fallen concrete. He yelped in pain. Flames started to leap out of the walls and he realized that he was probably running a fever now, probably hallucinating. Probably.


	9. Chapter 9

Oh, I'm gonna be in trouble now. ;-)

* * *

_I can feel the soft silk of your blouse  
And them soft thrills in our little fun house  
Then the lights go out and it's just the three of us  
You me and all that stuff we're so scared of  
Gotta ride down baby into this tunnel of love_**  
Tunnel of Love, Bruce Springsteen**

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 9 – Dark at the End of the Tunnel**

Kate arrived at the preserve's gated entrance and peered through the woods to the bright floodlights at the crash scene, nearly a mile away. Really, she should just go straight there, tell them what she'd found. But she was afraid they'd make her go home again, that they'd think she was grasping at straws. Maybe Esposito would back her up, but none of Kloskins' people were likely to believe it: she was convinced Richard Castle had set a trap for a serial killer on the way to his own wedding. It might have backfired... but maybe, just maybe, Castle had lived to spin another tale.

The preserve was gated, and she parked Castle's vintage Mustang on the side of the road. She popped the trunk and pulled out the unwieldy emergency kit that Castle insisted on keeping in every vehicle (which she'd actually complained about since the Mustang's trunk barely had room for a postage stamp). Space blanket. Bandages. Tire iron. Rope. Crappy old glow-in-the-dark flashlight with fading incandescent bulb. Between pockets and hands, that was all she could comfortably carry, with reasonable freedom of movement. She wished she'd thought to bring a rucksack. Hiking in toward the little Visitor's Center, a converted caretaker's cabin, she gave up on the flashlight and used her phone to navigate, aiming the beam low and praying she wouldn't attract attention from the crash scene. She found the info kiosk on the porch, the only light in the area. Mosquitos and moths flitted around the amber-colored fixture, and to Kate's surprise, a bat flitted by, snapping bugs out of the air, its shadow huge and fluttering on the porch pillars.

It was hard to read the site map because of the glare and moving shadows, but she gave her eyes time to adjust and perused a bit of the historic info, trying to get her bearings. What was the nature of this place? A colonial farm since 1647, then a Revolutionary War battle ground, then a farm again for 120 years. Then a Roaring 20s private estate (with a hidden speakeasy and bootlegging tunnel!) destroyed by fire, rebuilt postwar and burned down again. Now donated to the public and converted into a scenic area with "something to interest just about anyone". She read:

"_Follow Path C, ¼ mile to the Hoskins Estate Ruins. Watch for bobcat and skunks on the trail. Little Brown Bats are known to nest in the abandoned wine cellar, which is closed to the public. But you may hear the rustle of tiny wings, and their echolocation clicks as they enter and exit at dawn and dusk. Note: Park closes one hour after sunset. No camping permitted." _

Kate found the trail head and closed her eyes a few moments, adjusting them to almost total darkness amongst loosely clustered pines, birch, and starlight. Then she set off for the burned foundation. As she grew closer, she could hear a deep engine rumbling, and up at the roadside, a flatbed was delivering a backhoe to the crash scene. It was going to be a piece of work getting it down the embankment without tipping: they'd have to drive it in from a side road where it was less steep. Were they going to begin digging? For what?

She didn't want to give any indication that she was there, but she texted Esposito, her heart thundering. _"Can't sleep. Any news?"_

_"Nothing so far. Crater under car showed no sign of him xcept residual scent. Lots of broken concrete. Don't give up. Try 2 rest, see you sunrise, bro."_ She smiled, snorting back a little sob. He'd called her "bro".

She walked a little further, and saw a deeper, hulking blackness in a shadowed copse of trees. The mansion had been quite large, perhaps 50m by 100m, with a c-shaped courtyard and the battered remnants of an art deco fountain. The foundation was stone, and all the fallen wood had been cleared away. She stayed low, the beam of her phone light pooling pale-blue over the foundation's contours, which in some places was still faced with smooth marble, although it was mossy, cracked, and coated with layers of graffiti. At the north end of the foundation's basement, she found the old 'wine cellar' doorway, actually the entrance to the speakeasy. The door itself had once been wood, but had been replaced years ago with a metal door bolted into place, and bars bolted across that. There was a little window, unglazed, only about the size of a postcard. She'd have trouble even getting her fist through it. Below was a little placard:

_"Your park service dollars created this habitat  
for our local, threatened bat population.  
Please do not disturb our winged friends. _

_Did you know?  
A single bat can eat its own weight in mosquitoes every night." _

Kate wondered about that. If the bat's weight doubled, then did it eat exponentially more mosquitoes every night? She whispered to her inner Rick, _"Shut up and let me think, Castle."_

She put her phone to the window, trying to peer past it. Nothing but darkness, and a partially collapsed wall on her left. She wondered if the local quakes from fracking might have damaged the tunnel.

* * *

Castle didn't see Kate's phone flashlight beaming through the iron bars on the window, forty feet away. He didn't hear Kate calling "Castle? Rick? Castle, are you in there? CASTLE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? Oh, God, Rick, please be in there. Please, you have to be in there. _Please!" _He didn't hear her banging on the plate with a tire iron (neither did anyone else, because that backhoe was a son-of-a-bitch). He didn't hear her say, "I know you're in there. I'm coming back with a tool kit. We'll get you out..." She sighed and headed back toward the car. A few moments later, a white shape appeared out of the shadows among the trees. There was a local legend, going back to times when moccasined feet trod the paths, of a White Lady of the Swamps who lured people to their doom.

This was not that White Lady. This was Kelly Neiman, all dressed up to marry Rick Castle. In Kate's wedding dress, which she'd stolen from the cabana the previous evening.

* * *

Speaking of _"in love with the sound of your own voice,"_ Mephistopheles was at the stage of wanting to buy his voice candy, flowers, and black lacy lingerie. Maybe settle down, raise a few demons of his own. Rick wasn't sure whether the voice was in his head or not. "The berserkers talked of the joy of battle. Went to Valhalla drinking the blood of their enemies, not caring who they killed or why. But we're artists. When we plan, there's a cold, sweet, ephemeral joy. Like ice cream. A good murder is like an ice cream sundae and getting to lick the bowl. Not a drop of evidence left behind. You could do better than anything you've ever imagined. Anything you've ever seen. You could be the greatest serial killer that ever walked the earth."

Mephistopheles went on and on, droning through the litany of every fictional murder Richard Castle had ever written, every real murder case Rick had ever worked on. And with each one, a ghost emerged from the broken brick-and-concrete walls, and sat or stood or crowded or even oozed like slime from the ceiling above him. And they were all calling his name, and now among them he could hear the voices of those he thought to be living, crying out in desperation. And strange sounds, booming as of metal on metal, the grinding and pinging of something like gears or tools.

He started crawling, unable to determine where the sound was coming from. He was crawling through rubble, a place where the concrete had fallen, exposing older brick and then dirt. The bodies of the fallen seethed around him, and he could faintly hear them gibbering, feel the flutter of tiny wings. He tried to call out, but his mouth was dry, nearly glued shut and gritty with dust, bug parts, droppings that he couldn't even clean out with his filthy hands.

* * *

Beckett hurried to the Mustang and returned within ten minutes, carrying a small but heavy reusable shopping bag she'd found in the trunk. It contained a metal tool box along with her other stuff. Her dad's father had taught her how to change tires and spark plugs as a girl, and she could do basic maintenance on her Harley. So she knew her way around a tool kit. She also knew the walk better now, and it took her less time, with no flashlight, to get back to the old foundation. If her eyes tricked her, and she saw a hint of white mist amongst the old walls, she gave it no mind.

She started out by spraying penetrating lube on the bolts, letting it work its magic as she selected the right size wrenches. This tool kit was old. Thank God the park system hadn't yet converted to metric. "I guess they didn't want anyone breaking in here and stealing valuable darkness," she grumbled. She had to put an extender on the handle to get better leverage. Even then, the bolts were stiff. She prayed gratitude for every pullup she'd ever done as she removed bolt after bolt; two from each of two crossbars, which she then had to pry away; then one from each corner. The ratchet sound horribly loud. Intrigued by the noise, a Northern Mockingbird started up somewhere in the woods (either that or it was 4 am and Rick's stupid kitchen clock had started up by itself). She realized first light was really only minutes away, and she was expected to report in. Ryan would be awakening any moment and find her gone. The FBI would be following up on the Escalade and the woman's footprints, obviously Kelly Neiman's. But they might never let Beckett look in here... not until it was too late. Just then she lurched aside, startled, as a smelly cloud of bats flew out the little window, neatly dodging her face and hair as they panicked out into the darkness. She caught her breath, actually grateful for the shot of adrenaline that would make her stronger. "Well, that was very Scooby-Doo," she grumbled. "Okay. Here goes."

She grabbed the tire iron and started to pry the plate (it wasn't really a door) open. Here's a little secret about Katherine Houghton Beckett: everyone is afraid of something. Kate was afraid of a lot of sensible things: serial killers, tax audits, global climate change... but she was also afraid of one silly thing. Spiders. She'd finally pried the plate off its frame and, cursing her lack of gloves, strained to push a larger gap. Then she heard the tiny, brittle, distinct, tearing sound of black widow spider webs. She hated those nasty, red-hourglass, glossy assassins that hung around waiting for her in the woodpile at her parents' cabin when she was a kid. And of course they were still lurking there like eight-legged grenades of death when she'd stayed there for her recuperation. There were black widows here, now, waiting. She swore, overcome by a few seconds of unreasoning, fight-or-flight panic. They were probably streaming out to greet her right now, crawling up her pants legs, up her sleeves, down her collar... her cold sweat renewed, and she wanted to scream and jump out and flail around uselessly, tearing at her hair. Oh, she'd put up a brave front around Castle that time they found the body in the attic. But inside she'd had a fleeting illusion that mummified corpse was all wrapped up in white webbing, and that something poisonous was waiting for them, lurking in the shadows... "Get a grip, Beckett!" she seethed. If anyone was gonna scream like a little girl, it wasn't gonna be her. Not today.

She pushed the bag ahead of her and dropped it onto the floor, then squeezed the right half of her body into the crack and planted a foot on the inside wall, her back against the plate, and shoved with all her considerable strength. It was tight, even for her slim frame. She called "Castle? Rick, are you there?" And she could have sworn she heard something move, something heavy. Dragging. On the ground. She froze, calling more softly, because what if it wasn't him? What if... "Babe, is that you?" Her voice echoed, and she heard another movement. She was still wedged there, panting, straining to see into the tunnel, when she felt a hand clamp her shoulder and a sharp prick in the left side of her neck.

Anyone who tells you "there's nothing as dangerous as a dull knife" hasn't experienced either Kate Beckett's reflexes or the vicious point of her elbow in their ribs. Partly wedged in an ironclad doorway full of spiders, she was still a formidable opponent. The woman in white grunted, doubled over, then fell back away from her, a syringe clattering away amongst fallen stones. She was hidden in the deep shadow of the foundation, pale face and long gown ghostly in predawn twilight.

Kate gasped, bewildered. She'd been flower girl at her parents' wedding when she was four. She barely remembered her mother, and for a fleeting moment... a child's voice inside her mind cried out joyously, desperately, _"Mommy?!"_ But her mother was dead, gone, and this solid person was no ghost. Kate felt a slight buzzing at the pinprick and realized she'd been drugged. Praying she hadn't received too big a dose, she snarled, "Who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my dress?"

Rosie laughed softly. "Improvising." She took on Kelly's voice. "Don't you remember me from the plastic surgery office?"

"Kelly Nieman."

"The same. Michael's partner."

Kate whispered, "Michael? You mean Jerry Tyson? He's dead, Kelly. This can stop right now. 3XK has no power over you any more."

"What, no power over _me_? Are you a feckin' eejit?" She stepped closer to Kate, who was leaning against the iron plate, breathing hard, fighting nausea as a buzz spread out from the jab. "I'm the one with the power. _I'm his muse._" She gestured at the dark hole. "These Rodgers boys are alike in more ways than one. They need focus. They only hold the _seeds_ of greatness. We're their water and sunshine. You and me, Kate. We're the perfect ones. They just tag along, hoping for inspiration."

Kate was gasping for breath. "Is Castle in here?"

"I'd been chattin' your man up through the bars, the last twenty minutes or so before you came along with your nice toolkit. He's batshite crazy, but he's still kicking."

Castle didn't hear Kate slump in the doorway, drugged. Rosie shoved Kate inside with all her strength, picked up a shoulder bag she'd hidden in the shadows, and stepped over her. The lace overlay on the gown tore away, sighing down to shroud Kate like discarded spiderwebs.

* * *

"Rick. Richard Castle."

"Go away," he whispered. "You're not real."

"Is that any way to talk to your muse?" Rosie's hand patted Castle's cheek. His eyes drifted open, and he was looking into the shadowed face of a beautiful woman in a white dress.

Rick had seen Johanna's wedding photos in the framed photo on Beckett's bedroom wall, enough times to recognize the unique dress. The woman before him certainly looked familiar, and her slim hand on his jaw was gentle and soft. She had long, wavy, caramel-colored hair in an updo, her face barely lit by a small amber lantern. In the shadows, she looked like Kate. She looked very real.

"You're not Kate," he frowned. "Johanna?"

"Close your eyes, Lover. I'll clean you up a little." Her touch soothing over his forehead, he closed them, and Mephistopheles went to work. Castle felt something warm and wet on his face, no doubt the demon's tongue, lapping at him like Cletus the Big Red Hound that Alexis had watched obsessively as a child. He always wondered who followed that dog around with a barrel to pick up the droppings, but he'd never mentioned that to Alexis. Then one day when she was four, Alexis said, "What happens when Cletus poops?" and exploded into giggles. The next day she moved on to Rainbow Reader. Rick kept his eyes close, grateful for the small comfort, feeling his face being cleaned off. Rosie cleaned his left hand, then she went for his right. He screamed in pain and snatched it away, and without either of them knowing it, his cry brought Kate out of her darkness at the end of the tunnel. His hand felt like a branding iron, and he wondered if he was getting an infection in the bullet wound.

Kelly said "Shh, be still, darling. I can take the pain away. Be still." He felt a little prickle in his bicep. His sore hand, no, the whole arm, started to lose feeling and then disappeared out of his ken altogether. It might as well have been in New Jersey.

For some reason, Rick wondered if he might be hearing a dog barking in the distance. The hounds of hell, perhaps.

He mumbled, "I am never gonna use the phrase 'One hell of an imagination' again."

Meph's voice was muffled by Rick's hearing loss but cool, beautiful. "You won, Rick. You did it. I'm yours." He felt gentle lips on his cracked, dry mouth; through the miasma of bat shit and dust, he smelled cherry lip gloss, and barely opened his eyes. "Kate?"

His face rang with a slap.

"Wake up." Rosie rocked back on her heels, scowling at him. "Of course it's Kate. Who else would it be?"

He tried to focus, but in this low light, it was so hard to tell. "Safe word," he rasped.

Rosie snickered. "Apples. Next question?" She handed him an open bottle of water. He rinsed the dust and bat droppings out of his mouth and spat to his side on the ground, then drank the whole bottle without even stopping to breathe, to taste the bitter-sweetness of some drug, masked by a fruit flavor. Enjoying his desperate thirst, Rosie loved moments like this, when she offered her prey kindness and they were flooded with hope of relief and escape. It made the fall so much steeper in the end, because they'd thought for a while that they had a chance.

"How did you find me?"

"Easy. Kate."

"So you're not Kate."

"Do you want me to be Kate?"

"I think I might be contused," he slurred. "Confudsed?"

"Stand up," she said. "Come on, they'll be starting the backhoe at dawn. We don't want to be in here." She tried to help him to his feet.  
He found old Petros sitting on his legs. The old man grinned at him in the dark. _"Murder me once, shame on you. Murder me twice, shame on me." _

"I won't be getting up. Hey, are you perending to rescue me?" His head went from fuzzy to woozy. "Do I shound drunk?"

"Just in time," Rosie grinned. She called out of the tunnel. "A little help here?"

The figure of a man crowded through the gap, stumbling over Kate's unconscious body. "Jeep's outside," he said calmly.

Rick stared hard, trying to focus on the new arrival's face in almost complete blackness. "Perlmutter?"

Perlmutter's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Why, Mr. Castle. Fancy meeting you here."


	10. Chapter 10

**Too Soon Chapter 9: Hounds of Love**

_"It's in the trees! It's coming!"_

When I was a child:  
Running in the night,  
Afraid of what might be

Hiding in the dark, Hiding in the street,  
And of what was coming after me...

Now hounds of love are hunting.  
I've always been a coward,  
And I don't know what's good for me.

Here I go!  
It's coming for me through the trees.  
Help me, someone! Help me, please!

**Kate Bush, Hounds of Love **

Betsy the Wonder Hound had burned her nose. She'd sniffed a hot ember in her enthusiasm to find Pillow Case Rick, let out a yelp, then sank into a funk. It wasn't too bad, but it had made her grumpy. Her devoted handler, Mohammed Atah, considered taking her home, but Wilbur was still on the job and raring to go. Mo decided to just pick up some extra food and a couple of dog toys at the local mini mall in East Hampton. Go to the park, take a break. Let Betsy find something.

Actually Betsy's funk was not about the blister on her nose, which she found a minor irritation. Betsy, like all great hounds, was actually a princess, and one of the Twice-Named (technically, Thrice-): She had started out as Elizabeth Regina of Eastern Star and the Tennessee King. Her handler's daughter, Nuwwar, called her Cutie-Patootie. She was a blue-tick bloodhound whose line went back three-hundred years. She and her ancestors were bred and born to round up the good, the bad, the delicately scented, and the very smelly: lost children, runaway slaves, escaped murderers, stolen horses, contraband, you name it. In this case, Betsy was puzzled. Betsy was perplexed. Betsy was frustrated, and she was curious. And she was very, very disappointed in herself.

We have words. Dogs have smells. And most of us – people and dogs - have standards to which we hold ourselves. Some higher than others, of course.

The average modern American can recognize and easily use 4,000 to 10,000 words on a regular basis, while a highly educated person might use upwards of 20-25,000 words. Unfortunately too many of those words tend to be "dude," "ok," and "motherfucker". Shakespeare actively used more than 30,000 words in his written works. (We can bet that if Scrabble had been invented at that time, he would have cheated a little bit.) By contrast, all talking dog videos aside, canines don't use their mouths to form words much, although they can be taught to understand over 150 human words.

The average human can distinguish about a trillion scents. But a bloodhound, bred and trained, can distinguish 1000 times as many different scents as a human. Bloodhounds have a hanky-sized area of smell distinction wrapped through sinuses and into the brain, creating a mental image of their quarry, a mental map of their behavior and movements. But even beyond that, Betsy was the Smelling Shakespeare of Bloodhounds.

Upon arriving at the crime scene (and she knew by the smells of anger hanging in the air that there had been a murder), Betsy learned a few things about the red-haired girl and the young Irish cop almost instantaneously. The cop was a new father who had changed his daughter's diaper recently, and very carefully washed his hands twice thereafter plus used hand sanitizer. There were a few spots of breast-milk-spitup on his sleeve cuff. He had punched a man wearing Old Spice Cologne. The baby's mother was ostensibly vegetarian but had sneaked a bite of someone else's linguica omelette for breakfast, and the garlic put the baby off a little. The young cop had cried within the last five hours and had exposed himself to a chemical soup from the burning car down below. Just yesterday he had made love to his wife for the first time since the baby's birth, and the shared orgasm had been spectacular. He was steeped in her pheromones and deeply in love.

The girl Alexis - really a young woman - was halfway through her menses. That day she had touched or embraced 43 other women, each of them wearing approximately 23 different beauty products, and she had touched or embraced 57 men, although none of them in a sexual way. She wasn't in love with anyone, but she had a few possibilities on the back burner. She had experienced a trauma in the recent past that made her constantly cover fear, and this trauma only compounded that buildup of tension in her young body. Alexis had eaten vegetarian bacon product (Betsy wondered what the hell was wrong with people) and scrambled eggs with toast for breakfast and nothing since except a glass of lemonade. She had a tiny cut on her right hand, which she had not bothered to bandage. Her dress had been made of threads boiled away from the pods of 3,227 silkworms.

Betsy examined what Alexis and Ryan had in common. They were distantly related on her father's side and both his parents', going back about seven generations to a place in northern Europe where they were well-adapted for low levels of sunlight and moderate heat. They were frightened, exhausted, shocked, saddened, and they were looking for someone they loved. They both liked dogs. They both hoped beyond hope that Betsy would find the person they were looking for. They loved many people in common. They had both eaten salmon mousse sandwiches for dinner, but the girl had eschewed both the figs and the asparagus. Betsy liked broccoli ok, but she hated asparagus. Sometimes humans baffled her.

Atah handed her the pillowcase used by Rick Castle. Oh, this man. _Oh_. Alexis' father. Ryan's friend.

"That's Rick. Betsy, can you find Rick? Where's Rick?"

Mo let her and Wilbur familiarize themselves with the strongest scent on the pillow, ruling out the cross-scents of others who had handled it: a woman who'd slept on it with him, a maid who'd put it on the bed, and Alexis who had removed it.

Of her 172 human words, she knew the most important one among them was "love." Atah said it to her all the time, in her most favorite growly-lovey dog voice. "Good girl. Who love you, Betsy? Mo love you. Yeahhhh, good girl." And she knew it was true. She could smell it in Mo, and in Mo's family, she could smell love in Wilbur, the friendship-love that Mo felt for Freeze, the frustrated desire that Freeze felt for Mo. Overall she could smell about 27 different kinds of love, and several manifested in her triangulation between the girl, the young cop, and Pillow Case Rick.

The smells talked to one another, telling the story to Betsy's excited brain. "_First the important thing: Alexis' father loves dogs but occasionally pets cats. So he is a good man,"_ but in her opinion, "_not a great one. Between the things he puts on his hair, in his mouth, and on his skin, he uses 12 different products in the course of a day. This pillow case is from a beach house approximately 5 miles away from here. He lives there sometimes, and sometimes in Manhattan in the upper west side; he enjoys coffee, red wine, milk chocolate, and single-malt whiskey. He seeks adrenaline to hide a depressive streak. He got very sick a few months ago and still has scarring on his liver, it was some kind of organic toxin..." _She snuffed. It was a poison she didn't recognize, but its traits made her wonder how he had survived._ "He likes to read paper books in bed, and he is in love with a woman who sometimes shares this pillow with him. And she loves him right back. She just ovulated." _

Betsy's nose cast around; _"Pillow-Woman's prints are on the ground, the scent of her perfume and tears still hang in the air. She was wearing something of her mother's, but it was old, about thirty years old, from the woman's childhood. The mother's scent is masked by dry clean chemicals and perfume and time, but still hangs about her like a protective ghost. Rick's mother wears too much perfume, and she loves her but she's worried. Her father was here, holding her. He cried too. She wears cherry-scented lip gloss, among many other things. The woman used to take hormones to prevent conception but the dose has worn away and not been renewed. She had sex three times over the last two days with Rick, this man she loves past bearing. An egg has been fertilized but is not yet implanted in her uterus, and may not be. She bites her lip a lot. Right now she is, like the girl and cop, full of fear and grief, and the beginning simmer of a terrible rage. But this woman also likes dogs and is therefore a Good Person." _Betsy surmised _"Pillow-Woman is also looking for Rick."_

Betsy continued to survey the scene. She stepped up to the flag by footprints in the gravel at the roadside. She stopped a moment, smelling Rosie's prints. She snuffed in dislike and recognition, sweeping the ground with her ears, trying to pick up all the traces.

_"This woman wears almost thirty cosmetic products including a rose oil component in her perfume. She has traces of several different drugs circulating through her system – antidepressants, stimulants, anesthetics, antipsychotics, caffeine, blood pressure regulators, nicotine... the woman smokes, and the beginnings of cancer have left traces on her breath. She'll be dead in five years if she doesn't stop, maybe even if she does. There are other chemical smells: Disinfectant. Alcohol. Formaldehyde. Death. Masked and masked and masked again but there. Deaths I know. People I've looked for but haven't found. She knows where they are." Betsy moaned to herself, torn between knowledge and duty. "But I'm looking for Pillow Case Rick now. Pillow Case Rick." __Betsy was a well-trained detective. She didn't normally make leaps of logic. There was no reason to think that Rosie meant Rick himself any harm. But she felt uneasy. _

At Jerry Tyson's footprints, her tail began to wag, and she moaned a little again, but did not bark or bay. Wrong scent. "_Another man stood here. The man is clearly Rick's brother, on both sides, and they were about the same age. Not so many chemicals. He's sick. He's on antibiotics for a lung infection that just won't go away."_

Wilbur disagreed. _"This _is_ Pillow Case Rick. They smell almost exactly the same."  
"Almost. They're brothers. What's different?"  
Wilbur's tail tucked between his legs. "I dunno, but I don't like it. Are they different?"_

She smelled something she'd smelled before, on traces left by Jerry Tyson and Kelly Nieman. Most recently at a mass grave site on the beach, where serial killers – more than just them, there had been others - had been dumping bodies for years. Shallow graves and deep ones, revealed among the dunes by the smiting hand of the hurricane.

What she smelled? She had no word for it, but it made her tail tuck between her legs a moment, too. We would have called it evil. The smell of seeking, stalking, killing, and enjoyment of the suffering, a blank indifference – no – incapacity for the compassion we think is ingrained in us. Inability to process oxytocin, a bonding pheromone. Other problems with processing stimulus and response. But Betsy could smell a difference. Rick's brother had grown into it, been twisted through injury like one of those sad little trees that aren't even worth peeing on. There were chemicals his brain made too much of, and chemicals his brain had given up on. He was broken to it. Rosie had been born that way. Her father had been that way. The bundle of eggs in her ovaries held blueprints for killers.

Wilbur found Rick's brother intriguing all the same. _"Here's where Brother walked down the embankment. Here's where he stopped to cough. Here's where Brother fired a gun." _He nosed at a bullet casing the forensic techs had missed.

Freeze stroked his ears. "Good boy, Wilbur. Where's Rick?"

_"I'm getting to that. Here's where Brother started back up again. Here's where he came back down. He stood here for a while..."_

* * *

Betsy, meanwhile, found enough about Rick to bay about – down by the burned car, among the weeds and muddy ashes. _"Here's where they fought, and here's where Brother died. And here's where Rick... ow." _

Her nose had touched an ember, lurking just under the car. She bayed. Rick did not answer. _"He's down there. He's still alive. Wilbur, come on. Show them he's still alive." _She bayed again. She whined. She did the Excited Prancy Dance. Wilbur didn't get it.

_Wilbur paused, apprehensive. "I smell flying monkeys."_

"Wilbur, you are such a stupid fuck sometimes."

* * *

Atah had made Betsy go back to the SUV. He'd taken her over to the mini-mall and picked up food in case they'd be there all night, while Freeze and Wilbur futzed around. At the mini-mall, Betsy smelled Rosie, who had parked the Escalade somewhere nearby. She barked at Rosie, who was smoking a cigarette, listening to the police scanner in a nondescript salt-stained green Subaru Forester that smelled of death and garbage. Rosie was wearing headphones, sunglasses, and a long, curly auburn wig. Rosie wished she could tell Mo that the woman was a killer, that she was listening to a police scanner that rang plainly to her own ears but that Mo couldn't hear. The dog hesitated, pointing at her with an eager nose, but Mo thought she was just interested in the burger joint spewing grilled goodness into the air.

Rosie's sunglasses turned toward Betsy and Mo, and Betsy sensed a cold, killing threat. She feared for herself, and for Mo. She hung close to Mo's side as they went into the variety store. The owner glared at them disapprovingly until Mo pointed out Betsy's Service Dog insignia on her vest. Behind them, the Subaru pulled out of the lot, heading east on the Montauk highway, toward Rick's house. But Mo was tugging on her harness. "Come on, girl, let's get some liver treats." She was disappointed not to be getting a nice smoked pig's ear, but Mo wouldn't let her have them. She sniffed. Apparently it was all right to eat lobster when his wife wasn't around to nag him, but pig's ears? Not Halal.

* * *

She and her boys were put up in a motel for a much-needed nights' sleep, and Mo roused her again shortly before dawn. She loved this hour of the morning, when there was less noise and pollutant in the air, and she could smell the nocturnal activities of everyone around her. She loved it except when they were on the road, and Mo cheated on his diet. The lobster roll farts were a living hell. She suffered every time Mo ate one of those damn things.

The dogs relieved themselves in the parking lot at the first scent of sunrise, and they had canned liver dog food, her favorite. Their handlers picked up a couple of fast food breakfasts. When they got back to the crash site at about 4 a.m., it was still quite dark. A backhoe had arrived at around 3, and it had taken nearly an hour for the crew to try maneuvering it to the bank, realize that no, it really _was_ going to tip over, back it up, load it back onto the flatbed, and have the flatbed take it around to a side road then come along a meandering path through the woods.

Betsy's nose burn was feeling quite a lot better, and she was anxious to get back on the trail. Mo let the two dogs out and she was horrified to see so many people there.

Apparently a lot of people liked Pillow Case Rick. Of course Betsy had no comprehension of the internet beyond that smell of ozone and fascination when Mo played video games or his wife got on Skype with their many relatives. But As Gina had predicted, someone had announced Castle's disappearance, and the news had gotten out. There were nearly fifty people milling around in the hushed predawn, including a couple of news crews whose transmitters just refused to work, people holding candles and teddy bears, leaving flowers, people trying to get around the yellow crime scene tape to put yellow ribbons up on tree limbs, being herded away by frustrated, exhausted police. One person was dressed as a gray man with big black goggles; he carried a sign that said "Beam Me Up Too." Betsy could smell a whole cocktail party full of emotions amongst these people: genuine sadness and worry, curiosity, fear, skepticism, hope, guilt... Guilt?

A slight, sour man stood amongst the crowd. He smelled of death, guilt, and peppermints. He accompanied a dead plastic lady thing in a wheelchair. Maybe she was his squeaky toy, only he humped her instead of chewing on her. Whatever. He knew something. But Betsy, being a dog, didn't know people called him Perlmutter, and she didn't know what he knew.

* * *

Perlmutter was gazing past the crash scene into the preserve on the far side. He'd noticed something, a brief, cold-blue flash of light: someone with a flashlight or phone. He smiled down to the doll, and patted her shoulder. "You were right." He turned, and wheeled it back to his rental car.

* * *

Puzzled, Betsy leaned against Mo's leg and he scratched her ears. "You wanna look around again, Girl?" She followed his lead, and they edged back down the bank toward the car wreck site. This time she sniffed more cautiously. Pillow Case Rick was definitely down there. His left hand had clung for several seconds to this iron bar, his other hand had left a microscopic scrape but too much blood and a whiff of gunpowder – now burned away – on this chunk of concrete. She whined, wanting to dig for him. She needed the rest of the story. She bayed, not in the joy of discovery, but in frustration.

* * *

Esposito was feeling pretty damn thrashed. He went to Deputy Holst "I'm just gonna take a quick catnap so I'm fresh when the FBI comes. Anything changes..."

Holst nodded. "Backhoe should be here soon." He sighed. "I wish to hell we had ultrasound. They're booked solid, it's been crazy around here lately."

"Really?"

"Yeah, man. We've had three teen girls just up and disappear over the last three days, now this. Thursday we got an anonymous tip about a gravesite down at Cherrystone Beach... serial killer, maybe more than one. Body parts." He sighed. "We're all run ragged: officers, dogs, coroner, detection devices, forensics..."

Esposito shook his head in sympathy. "Perfect storm, huh?"

"Yeah. They say it comes in waves, but... man I could use a night's sleep. But you go crash for a while, I got someone relieving me at 6 am."

Espo slept through the backhoe's arrival, its near-tipping, its removal and relocation. And deep in sleep, he missed Kate's text at 4:23 am: "Meet me at end of tunnel in old foundation. I think I know where he is." She should have called him, but she'd been afraid someone might hear her voice. That was actually the least of her worries.

What finally awoke him was Betsy, barking.

* * *

Bat guano supports an ecosystem all its own. Millions of different kinds of bacteria and fungi, and tiny bugs of all kinds who feed on the guano itself plus the fungi, further breaking it down. Then there are larger, predatory bugs who feed on the smaller: spiders, huntsmen, centipedes. Rick's right hand was nipped by a centipede as he dragged himself through, but he didn't even notice it, his hand being one big bundle of agony already. The centipede had just been defending itself, and scurried away. One of the bats above Rick (we'll call her Puff to avoid confusion) heard that tiny, alluring scurry, and feeling a bit peckish, swooped down on silent, lacy wings. She made short work of the centipede, Rick's blood still fresh on its tiny jaws. But Puff was still hungry. She continued down the tunnel toward the window opening, tilting at a 23º angle to slip through without banging her fingertips against the hard metal. Suddenly a bright, cold-blue light shone in her eyes, momentarily blinding them. She banked her wings, startled, but it was too late to stop; she closed her eyes and barreled through on echolocation, narrowly avoiding a young female human who jumped back, equally startled.

Puff continued on into the night sky, shaking the bright light out of her head. She noticed other bright lights over near the road, where a number of humans were milling about doing something incomprehensible. And there were dogs. Puff didn't like either humans or dogs, but the lights attracted mosquitos and tasty moths (she liked the fuzzy white ones best: big, fat, sweet, and easy to catch). In order to eat its weight in insects every night, a bat must have a very efficient metabolism. Puff flew about for twenty minutes, snapping fast food out of the air. The centipede was digested very quickly. But if you look at a centipede's exoskeleton in an electron micrograph, you'll see it's not perfectly smooth: millions of tiny pockets, claws, scaly shapes and hairs provide it protection and traction. In the remaining pieces of the centipede that traveled through Puff's body, a tiny trace – 3 parts per million – of Rick's dry blood passed unscathed in an air pocket.

Pursing a moth that was trying to hump a backhoe headlight, Puff dropped her tiny load of evidence a few feet from Betsy. Betsy, sniffing about, smelled Puff the Flying Monkey's droppings from a thousand nights, among those of many others. It's been mentioned that Betsy was the Shakespeare of Smell. She was also the Sherlock Holmes of Scent. Her new nickname was soon to become Little Canine Castle. Betsy homed in on Puff's bean-sized blob of fresh poo, sniffing delicately. She snuffed and wagged, inhaling. She groaned, then yipped, inviting Wilbur over.

Mo knew better than to distract Betsy, but gestured to Freeze: "Looks like Lassie found Timmy down the well again." Wilbur started to wag, searching, not yet too excited. Betsy woofed softly, her feet doing an eager dance. She felt the picture mapping out in her mind, infinitely fast and infinitely slow: "_The guano, the bat, the centipede, Pillow Case Rick, the bite, the tunnel of ancient earth, old brick, layers of concrete, moss and algae..."_ She had it all, she just had to read the map... she sniffed around, hoping for more information. "_Tunnel. Where? Where did the flying monkeys come from?"_ She turned in circles, barking at the sky.

Up the embankment in his car, Esposito awoke, shaking away nightmares of women in white and burning cars. He was tingling all over, and then he noticed the barking, and he was out the door and on his phone in a heartbeat. "Ryan. We got something. Move." He charged down toward the crash site. One of the dogs was excited, turning in circles. The other was still and looked like he was trying to remember where he'd left his squeaky toy.

Wilbur located Puff's poo, sniffed it. _"Flying monkey. Bug. Hey, is that Pillow Case Rick?_"

Wilber ate the poo. Betsy groaned in frustration, actually nipped at him. Mo held her back, concerned. She'd never done that before.

Wilbur tucked his tail, dejected. _"Sorry I ate the poo. I just couldn't... am I in trouble?"_ He whined, uncertain. The bat guano turned to slime in Wilbur's mouth, the scent receptors at the back of his sinuses calculating the amount of Rick-ness. He considered the way a connoisseur does a fine wine. _"Hey. I think it is Rick."_

But Betsy didn't care about that tiny dot of evidence any more. The inside of her head, her very being, lit up with joy, with certainty, as the map completed itself. _"THERE. HE'S THERE. I KNOW WHERE HE IS."_ She let out a bay that shook the trees, and took off running for the old foundation. To her surprise, she was nearly outrun by Esposito, who'd hurtled down the embankment and now sprinted toward the foundation, flashlight in hand. She'd smelled him around. She knew he was a good guy to have on her side.


	11. Chapter 11

I am so honored by the amazing enthusiasm for this story. It's been so much fun watching it unfold in my mind. There have been as many surprises for me as there have been for my dedicated little core of readers. Perlmutter really threw me for a loop and I had several days' panic wondering what the hell he was doing standing at the top of that bank. Help? Or hindrance? It could go either way. Really, I agonized over it until it became clear.

Thanks so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows. A few more chapters to go now.

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 11 – Arlene**

_Nobody knows about my man._  
_They think he's lost on some horizon._  
_And suddenly I find myself_  
_Listening to a man I've never known before,_

_Telling me about the sea,_  
_All his love, 'til eternity._

_Ooh, he's here again,_  
_The man with the child in his eyes._  
_Ooh, he's here again,_  
_The man with the child in his eyes. - Kate Bush_

* * *

Kate lay on the floor of the old speakeasy, next to the exit, which was still mostly blocked by the skewed metal plate. She was half-draped in lace torn from the skirt of her mother's wedding dress. She lay still, stunned and fighting the medication, watching Kelly Nieman working on Castle in the muted amber glow from the old flashlight.

Castle let Kelly wash his face and hands, gave him water, then she pulled up his right sleeve and injected something into his arm. He was conscious, although filthy, and talking but barely coherent, babbling about demons or something. Someone else – a man of average height and build - stepped into the room, walked over Kate with barely a glance, and Kelly spoke to him. Then Castle, trying to focus, said a name that would have floored Kate had she not been there already. "Perlmutter?"

Perlmutter said, "They're about to start up with the backhoe. If you can't get him moving, you'll have to leave him. This whole tunnel will collapse."

Kelly said, "I thought you said you were going to throw them off the trail."

"Good luck! They have bloodhounds. I'd say you have less than five minutes before they let them loose again."

Kelly snarled, "Fuck."

Perlmutter turned and looked back over at Kate. "Is she already dead?"

"Probably not. If she's alive we can drag her out with us, take her along for playtime."

"Just as well."

He came back and knelt down to check on Kate, and placing a hand on her wrist, felt her pulse racing, something she couldn't hide or control. He whispered something so softly that Kate barely heard it. "She thinks I'm working for her. I'll get Castle out of here. Can you take her down?"

Kate hesitated. She wasn't sure whether this was actually Perlmutter, or, if he was, whether he could be trusted. She realized that this man actually did smell a little like Perlmutter, who was meticulously neat yet still had a bit of an odor issue. Betsy would have been proud. Taking a leap of faith, Kate barely nodded. She was lying on her right side, trying to get at her gun without moving too much. Perlmutter was not the type to pat her shoulder encouragingly. So he didn't.

Perlmutter said to Kelly, "She's out for the count. Won't be fun hauling her through that doorway. Let's get them out first, then fuss around."

Perlmutter hurried back to Castle and Kelly, taking care in the dark not to trip on bits of debris. "Come on, Mr. Castle," he sang out. "WAKE UP. Get your lazy ass up off the ground and stop letting other people do all your work for you." He added, "What's wrong with his hand?"

Kelly was making a sling from the black gaff tape she'd produced from her bag, essentially just taping Castle's forearm down across his upper belly. "Michael shot it. Hamate bone's smashed."

Perlmutter snickered rhetorically, "Will he ever type dreck again."

Castle said, "Pearly, you are the meanest man in the whole world." He sounded like a four-year-old. "Why don't you like me?"

"Because everything's easy for you."

_"It is not!"_

"Well, you make it look easy, which is even worse. Now get up."

The earth shook slightly. The bats gave it up, escaping into first light. Rick pouted. "I don't wanna. You're gonna lay me out on a slab an' eat me like a sandwich."

"Exactly right, Mr. Castle, a ham sandwich."

"So you're really Perm-Perlmutter."

"No. Of course not. I'm his double, that's how we do things in 3XK Land. Now come on, get up."

"No, no, no, no, no. You're definitely Perl-"

Perlmutter punched him in the mouth. "Shut up."

"Ow." Castle heard, more than felt, his jaws snap together, not too hard. "That wasn't much of a punch, Sidney. Maybe I should punch you back." He tried to raise his right arm, looked down at it taped to his body. "Hey, it's not working. Should I punch you with my left hand?"

"Way to telegraph."

Castle said, "I couldn't find my phone."

There was a deep rumble at the far end of the tunnel, and the ground shook. A few loose pieces of wall and ceiling tumbled down. Nothing big yet, but a stern warning. The backhoe was in place by the crater. Up above, the crew had no knowledge of the tunnel, or of the ground's instability in this area.

Kelly pulled a gun out of her bag and pointed over to where Kate lay beneath the lace shroud. "Get up, Castle, or I shoot Kate."

"I thought you said _you_ were Kate. Kate would never shoot herself. I think my tongue hurts." He was trying to get up now, hitching his back against the wall, Perlmutter hauling up on his left arm. "I sprained my ankle, you know. Thaaaaat hurt like a son of a bitch..." He beamed at Kelly. "I can almost not feeling it now."

Kelly poked through the video app on her phone. "You see this? This is Kate sitting on the floor of your bedroom, holding a gun to the underside of her chin."

"NO." He whimpered, staring at it. "Beckett? Don't do that. You know how it feels, don't..." Under the lace mantle, Kate held back tears. Castle was leaning against the wall, utterly disconsolate, sobbing.

Perlmutter grunted. "Let's take it outside, crybaby."

Kelly was adamant. "Look at her, Castle. Now if you want her to live through this, _you_ have to." She put the phone away and picked up the amber lantern. "Get your fine arse up and out."

Half-supported by Perlmutter, half-dragging himself upright against the wall, Castle was trying to sort it all out. "Why are you wearing her dress? Where's Kate?"

"I'll answer all your questions when we get to the Jeep. We're going for a little ride," said Perlmutter.

Castle mumbled "Can we get ice cream?" He was leaning on Perlmutter, staggering across the widened speakeasy floor to the entrance. Bats flew in, hoping to escape the bright work lights and settle down for the day. The ground rumbled again, and the bats created a panicked, musk-scented maelstrom, afraid to settle on the cracking concrete that comprised their roost.

Kelly said, "Any kind of ice cream you want, Rickyboy," and to Perlmutter, "Get him out of here. Put him in the back of the jeep and tarp him."

Perlmutter nodded. "Lucky for you that I take notes and I'm not an idiot." He nudged Castle forward. "Now, keep moving, lard-ass."

_"I am not..." _

"Let's just see you prove it. Squeeze through the doorway."

"But what about Beck- Are you mad? I know you have a crush-"

Perlmutter interrupted hastily, "I'm not Perlmutter. Kelly gave me a makeover. I just look like him..."

"You wouldn't let her die..."

"Go, go, GO!" Perlmutter was trying to shove him through. Castle was about 1/3 again Perlmutter's mass, and he'd been working out. Even dosed up with opiates and highly suggestible, Richard Castle was (as Betsy had surmised) basically a dog. He was loyal, and he had his priorities, and he was stubborn.

Seeing the woman on the floor, Castle didn't want to budge. "Is that you, Keckett? Bate?"

Kelly was standing over Kate, a gun pointing down at her. "Get out, Castle, or Kate's dead meat."

"Well, tha's just not fair."

"Life's not fair."

"People keep saying that but do they try anything about to fix? It? Huh?" He shook Perlmutter off. "Call off your dogs off." Perlmutter staggered back.

They all heard the dogs then. Baying.

* * *

Above ground, the backhoe, which hadn't even started digging yet, shifted as the earth beneath it began to crumble. It whipped back and forth as forensics officers and workmen scattered and ran. The driver jumped out and scrambled to safety, miraculously unhurt. The baying, scent-thrilled dogs, their handlers, and Javier Esposito ran desperately toward the mouth of the tunnel as the earth caved away behind them, catching up to them, opening up like the pit of hell with dust and tiny flying monkeys everywhere. The backhoe rocked, its arm snapping around like a scorpion's tail, and the whole thing toppled over sideways into the tunnel.

* * *

There was a woman's scream, and two shots fired. Perlmutter lunged at Beckett, but whether it was to help her or stop her from shooting Kelly... it was impossible for Rick to tell in the near-dark.

A black cloud of dirt and dust rolled from the backhoe to the tunnel entrance, and as the roof collapsed, the sky opened above them in a widening jagged rip, 100-year-old oak beams falling in slow motion. For a moment, Rick winced in a terror that he would normally have tried to conceal in a manly fashion.

He shut his eyes tightly. Petros stood next to him at the gateway. "You've already wrestled an angel. This part's easy. Get Kate out." Richard Castle braced his body and shoved the metal plate back and away from him with his full strength. He grunted and strained, desperate. He was wedged between two gates of pearl, and he wondered which side he'd wind up on. Finally the 300-lb metal plate crashed down into the old foundation with the clang of a church bell, but whether it was for a wedding or a funeral, nobody could be sure. Rick fell over on it and the ringing sound deadened. He then rolled over onto the ground onto his right arm, effectively crushing what he could not feel. He lay panting, trying to recover. The cloud of fine dust settled around him.

* * *

Javier Esposito came flying down off the banked side of the foundation, bellowing "NYPD! Everyone, hands up! Nobody move!" and then, when he saw that nobody was actually moving, "Aw, shit."

Castle was lying on his side, having just tumbled over some kind of large metal plate. He put his left hand up. The right wasn't going anywhere.

Espo hurried to him. "You're alive!" His bright expression immediately turned to worry. "Where's Beckett?"

Castle pointed at the slumped wall of earth. Maybe a beam had held. Maybe there was an air pocket. Maybe she'd been shot. Maybe she'd been hit in the head by a rock, smothered, strangled by Perlmutter...

The two bloodhounds, Betsy and Wilbur, found Castle and fell all over him, licking and kissing him, ecstatic. Betsy joyfully shoved a nose into Castle's crotch. Castle said, "Could you introduce yourself first?" and shoved her away, giggling, but she didn't care. Their handlers realized that despite Castle petting their silky ears and mumbling, "So soft!" the man was severely injured. They pulled back on the leashes. "Sit!"

Castle said, "No, I need to get up..."

Mo put his arms around Betsy, and gave her a Baco-bite.

"Good girl, Betsy. Gooooood girrrrrrllllll. Who's my good girl? Betsy's my good girl. You found Rick. Good girl."

Wilbur leaned toward Castle, loving him with the deepest love a dog can possibly feel, because for the first time in his life, Wilbur was meeting a man who also liked to roll in poo, and he knew they would be friends for life.

Castle tried to sit up. Wilbur's handler, Officer Freeze, stopped him. "Sir, please don't move. You're hurt."

"I'm ok, I can't feel a goddamn thing, where's my wife? Beckett?" He still couldn't use his right arm but got up on an ankle that just shouldn't have been working, and staggered over to Esposito, who was already scrabbling frantically in fallen dirt, beams, and concrete, trying to unearth a half-buried brunette woman in white. "Beckett!"

"Kate?" "Beckett!" Castle and Freeze, even the dogs joined in digging. Rick worked one-handed, kneeling on his recently-dislocated knee and his sprained ankle, forgetting completely that he would be in a world of pain when the meds wore off. Mohammed Atah radioed Sheriff Kloskins.

"We've got at least three people injured over here, end of the tunnel. See me waving?" He was signaling with his flashlight, standing on a heap of rock. "Call for backup ambulances." The ambulance that had been waiting all night at the top of the embankment roared off, heading east, siren screaming. The sound was deafening as the dogs began to howl, the doppler effect echoing crazily amongst the stone ruins of the house as the ambulance found the side road two miles east and then doubled around south and west toward them, making for the back way to the entrance gate of the preserve. It didn't even pause; someone had already opened it. A darkened jeep roared to life in the tree-shadows near the visitors center, its beams piercingly bright now, and careened down the path toward them, followed by the ambulance.

Gates and Tori jumped out of the jeep and dashed to the foundation, flashlights in hand, the beams slicing white through the rolling dust clouds, illuminating nothing. They all heard the dulcet tones of Captain Victoria Gates. "NYPD!" Gates announced. Pulling out their service weapons, she and her accompanying officer continued forward, picking their way through the ruins. She turned to her companion. "Tori, can you help guide the paramedics down here, and radio for additional medical?"

"Yes, Sir." Tori ran back the way she'd come.

Gates rushed forward. Catching sight of Rick, she gasped, "Mr. Castle."

"I'm, uh, I think so. I'm on drugs," he smiled apologetically. Then he burst into tears. "I can't find Beckett."

"My God. She's in there?" Gates turned to Freeze. "Get back to the crash sight and have them bring those floodlights down." She glanced up at the sky. "By the time the sun's actually up it might be too late, if it isn't already..." She was on her knees with the others. "Where did you last see her?"

The woman in white groaned, then shouted, "Feckin' piece of shite, I'll teach you to turn on me..." Strong hands clamped down on her shoulders and Rosie screamed, fighting like a wildcat as Javier Esposito lifted her bodily out of the wreckage. Beckett had shot her in the right shoulder, and Espo didn't really feel too bad about squeezing the wound as he pulled her out.

Gates glared at the woman Esposito struggled to restrain. "Ma'am, I suggest you calm down." Kelly was wearing Johanna Beckett's decimated wedding dress and her wig was askew. The bloodstain of a bullet graze bloomed on her right shoulder. She was twisting like a wildcat. A hand shot up out of the rubble and grabbed at her skirt, yanking furiously.

In a shower of dirt clods and beam splinters, Kate Beckett emerged, snarling, "Get the fuck out of my mother's dress, you fucking bitch!" She used the dress like a handhold, crawling up Rosie's body as the serial killer struggled and screamed.

Castle sat back clumsily on his ass, trying to avoid the skirmish, stared at his wife (because in his mind he'd married her over a year ago) and said in wonder, "Best Bridezilla ever!"

Kate ripped and tore, Rosie's bare legs flashing, then from the dirt, another pair of arms - Perlmutter's - reached around Rosie's ankles and restrained her feet. The fragile fabric gave way, and Kate stood triumphantly before Kelly Nieman, clutching the bloody rags of her mother's wedding dress in her arms.

Gates exclaimed "Detective Beckett, restrain yourself!" She waded in to help Perlmutter divest himself of dirt and rocks. He had a bloody gash on his forehead, and when he'd jumped into the fray, Kelly had shot him in the thigh instead of Kate. He looked immensely proud of himself.

Kelly was reduced to a lingerie ensemble that Kate recognized as her own, the killer's enhanced, scarred C-cup breasts barely decent in a B-cup bra. "If I can't wear the dress, nobody can," Kate growled. Gates stepped in to help Esposito cuff Kelly.

Kate said, "If you behave, I might let you keep the underwear."

Esposito grinned. "Remind me never to borrow your clothes."

Then Kate dropped the rags on the ground, and looking around for Castle, saw him sitting on a rock, wide-eyed as a child. He stared at her, so happy, and said, "Hi!" The sun finally edged over the horizon, lighting the tree branches above with lemon and amber, but they were all still shadowed by ruins. She put a hand over her mouth, her tears streaking tracks through the dirt on her face, and hurrying toward him, she crouched down, and they smiled joyfully.

Rick said, "I'd hug you but I can't stand up."

Beckett knelt before him, throwing her arms around him. "I'm so glad you're ok."

"Can't feel a thing. Dunno bout OK."

"I don't know what that bitch gave you, but I want some."

"Nah," Castle said. "Come here." She nodded and swung a long leg over to straddle his lap, pulling his head against her breast, and he could hear her breath rasping with sobs, her heart beating wildly. "Hey, is that my Henley?" he squawked, then kissed her through it, right on the place that marked her heart, the place where her scar lived. He felt absolutely thrilled to see her, but sort of pissed that everything was still fuzzy, blunted. He leaned into her, his left arm tight around the small of her back. Listening, listening, as her heart and breathing slowed. He could feel _her, _even though he could barely feel himself.

They stayed there a long moment, ignoring the paramedics who hovered over them. The paramedics said, "We need to take a look at him."

Castle said, "Go away." The look Beckett gave them was so terrifying, they handed her an emergency blanket, gave up and went to Perlmutter and Rosie, both of whom had minor gunshot wounds and a great many bruises and contusions.

"Kate," Castle whispered, and patted her on her back to get her attention. "Kate? Kate."

She broke her hold a moment and looked at him deeply. He reached up and cupped her lovely jaw in his good hand. He was starting to feel too much now, both physically and emotionally. Starting to remember things he didn't want to remember. The adrenaline of the cave-in and looking for her had made him burn through the opiates quickly. A lump formed in his throat.

They both said the same words at the same time. Hers were spoken with sympathy, with understanding, with kindness. His with grief, with anger, with a hollow sense of loss:

"I know who the killer is."

* * *

Esposito and Gates hauled Rosie away from the rubble, still screaming. "This is police brutality. I'll make you pay. I'll make you all pay, I'll hunt down every goddamn one of you and crochet your guts into a feckin' hair scrunchie!"

Gates arched an eyebrow at her. "How quaint."

Ryan had arrived with Lanie. He said, "It's an Irish thing. Gift of gab."

Perlmutter shook his head. "That's not Irish. That's just plain ol' garden variety psychotic."

Lanie murmured, "Do you have to read her rights if she's a complete basket case?"

Esposito shook his head. "I dunno, she might not even hear them with all the squawking."

They helped the paramedics strap Rosie down on a gurney. She writhed in Kate's stolen underwear, and they all realized she was covered with DIY plastic surgery scars.

Ryan turned his gaze away, scratching his head. "Yeah, that's disturbing." A paramedic covered Rosie with a blanket, and they strapped her down again, just to be sure.

Rosie started screaming again. The paramedics looked at one another, shrugged, and started the laborious process of wrestling her gurney out of the rubble. Sheriff Kloskins had come down by this time, along with Deputy Holst, each with 2-day shadow and a look of extreme relief that things were coming together. "Thank you, Captain Gates. Sorry about the backhoe."

Gates shook her head. "In perfect circumstances, you'd have waited for the geo ultrasound, but things came to a head so quickly." She turned to Holst. "Make sure Dr. Nieman's constantly under guard with someone you know like the back of your hand. She needs to be hospitalized, high security, solitary. She's more dangerous than she looks, and she has hidden resources we don't even know about."

Rosie was listening in and railed at Gates. "You're damn right I do, you self-satisfied cow. You ever want to see those three girls again?"

Kloskins paled. "What three girls?"

"Oh, let's see. Tiffany... Kayla... Elise? Sweet little blondes. Just the type Jerry Tyson liked to play with. He set them aside specially, wanted to test Ricky out on them."

Gates said, "Where are they?"

Rosie smirked. "God, I love America."

"Where are those girls, Dr. Nieman?"

"I have the right to remain silent. Anything I do or say may be used against me in the court of law..."

Gates looked over at Castle and Beckett, wrapped in a blanket, absorbed in one another, not hearing what Rosie was saying. She gritted, "Get that monster out of here before I shut her up myself."

Kloskins turned to Holst. "You finish up here. I'll ride in with her. Tell Brady I want two extra cars to flank us to the hospital."

Rosie was crowing "I have the right to an attorney..." when the ambulance doors slammed behind her and Kloskins. The ambulance drove away, sirens chirping and honking like geese on crack.

Esposito said, "Speaking of crazy. What the hell, Perlmutter?"

Perlmutter said, "You explain it, Captain, and I trust you'll make me look properly heroic." He flinched away from the EMT. "Can I have a mirror? I'd like to address the extremely painful cut on my forehead." The paramedic shook his head, dabbing with antiseptic wipes.

Gates said, "I asked his supervisor to call him in to assist because Dr. Parish was unavailable. Dr. Perlmutter refused."

Perlmutter huffed. "We were at a Living Doll Appreciation convention. Arlene and I had been planning it for months. I had no actual desire to attend a last minute fly-by-night wedding in the Hamp-Toons," he grumbled. "But Arlene insisted. So we missed almost the entire second day before we could get back for the Evening Social and Talent Show."

Ryan said, "Wait, isn't Arlene..."

"So _why_ did you come?" asked Lanie.

"Arlene said it was the right thing to do. Would you be careful?" he snapped at the paramedic, who was trying to clean up a nasty cut on his forehead. He snatched at the alcohol wipe. "Here, let me..."

"Sorry, Doctor," said the Paramedic. "Please don't interfere. Insurance liability."

Perlmutter huffed.

Lanie said, "But we saw you at the... We saw you at Castle's house yesterday."

"Yes, you did. And once we were off the hook, Arlene and I took the charter bus back to the city, then caught the rest of the day's events."

Esposito added, "I saw you here yesterday afternoon."

Perlmutter shook his head. "I just got back here about three hours ago, after getting a call from Captain Gates when I was _right in the middle of something._"

Gates was blushing. "I'm so sorry, Dr. Perlmutter, and I know it was late at night, but I didn't realize..."

Some people drip sarcasm. Perlmutter had upped it to a scalding stream. "Oh, it's all right," he sighed. "We'll only be missing out on the Miss Living Doll Brunch Meet N'Greet at 10 a.m."

Esposito said, "Dude, it's a doll."

Perlmutter glared. Captain Gates tried to mollify him, "They probably have conventions all the time. I collect dolls too, and..."

"Not like this. We're a small but dedicated community. We only have this one international convention of doll lovers in the continental U.S. every four years. By then I'll have to have Arlene's face replaced at least once. These dolls are incredibly delicate, you know..."

Lanie said, "Wait, so there was an impostor doll and an impostor Perlmutter?"

"That wasn't a doll," said Perlmutter. "That was a serial killer named Darrell Bingham, and a plasticized corpse he keeps around for fun."

Everyone exchanged horrified looks. Perlmutter said, "It's no worse than going to Body Worlds. Do you have any idea where those bodies come from?"

"Where did you find him?" asked Ryan, keeping to the point.

"I didn't find him. The FBI did. When Captain Gates called me at TEN PM last night" (glare), at first we thought there was some mistake." Then, Perlmutter got a strange, dreamy smile. "I talked it over with Arlene, and we realized we couldn't be both still in the Hamptons and also enjoying _an extremely nice party_ at the JFK Convention Center Grand Ballroom." He paused, mastering his irritation. "So I gave Captain Gates a call back, and we discussed the possibility that whoever had kidnapped Mr. Castle was using my double."

Esposito said, "Like Kelly Nieman did with me and Lanie."

"Exactly. The question being, why would they want access to the Long Island coroner's office? We checked, and it turns out a man claiming to be me had shown up both at the crash site and at the morgue, after Dr. Dinkmeyer got the body's DNA results. And after Dr. Parish and Detective Esposito crapped out for the evening."

Lanie's eyes flashed a warning. "It's called sleep."

Perlmutter said, "Not like I got any last night. I had to come here and do play-acting, fill in for Bingham. Entirely out of my pay grade."

Gates added: "According to Bingham, Nieman has backup plan after backup plan, depending on how it played out: scenarios for if she got killed, if Mr. Castle died, if her partners were killed or captured... She even contacted Castle's double last week - that stunt man, but he was already booked this weekend. Bingham tried to steal the burned body from the morgue, but based on an anonymous tip, we'd placed extra security. He tried to escape, but a homeless vet tackled him in the parking lot." She chuckled. "One tough customer, a Mr. Hunt. We questioned Bingham and found he was supposed to meet up with Nieman in a jeep she kept parked in an RV storage facility. He'd picked up the jeep, was supposed to collect the body and was waiting on her call. The FBI was there when it came in."

"The FBI? But we weren't even sure it was a kidnapping."

"Agent Jordan Shaw got a tip from the CIA. Apparently there's a politico in town somewhere and one of their agents was monitoring chatter. She called in a favor." Gates grinned.

Esposito looked at Perlmutter with a new respect. "So you went undercover as a serial killer?"

"Yes. Arlene and I really turned the tables on that bastard. He had quite a selection of body parts stowed away in his freezer." Perlmutter smiled. "It's a shame that I don't work this jurisdiction. Dinkmeyer has a big job on his hands."

* * *

Kate, at this point, was still utterly absorbed in Castle. She still had his head against her chest, and was stroking his filthy hair. Absentmindedly he reached up and cupped her breast for comfort and she just let him keep it there, sheltered by the blanket around them. His voice was small. "I was so scared I'd never see you again," he whispered.

She nodded. "Me too." She placed her hand over his. He tried to focus on it.

"My ring's on your thumb."

"I was waiting to give it to you."

He leaned back. "I"m glad you didn't put it on a chain." He fumbled with his left lapel. "Look in my pocket."

She reached into his left pocket and pulled out the ring box, opened it up. It was no surprise – they'd selected the ring set together. "I'm so glad you didn't lose it in the struggle."

He fumbled a little to pick the ring out of the box. "Hold out your wing finger. Ring finger."

"Here?"

He nodded, and slipped the ring onto her finger. "Katherine Houghton Beckett, with this ring I thee wed even though I'm on drugs."

Kate grinned, and pulled his ring off her thumb, then slid it onto his finger. "Richard Edgar Alexander Rodgers Castle, with this ring I thee wed. Forever."

He looked at her, bittersweet. "Not just always."

Kate shook her head. "Forever."

Dirtiest kiss ever. Also the sweetest.


	12. Chapter 12

I was out of town and unable to update this for a week. I felt like an addict going through withdrawal. Also I was in the high desert, again, with my husband and daughter, on a road trip. If you knew how much I secretly hate the desert and dearly love big green trees and ocean waves, you'd understand just how much I love that man.

This may have backfired since he's now talking about retiring in Nevada. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! :-D

And here we are, talking about the things we do in search of love.

* * *

**I See You**

_Yeah I went with nothing  
Nothing but the thought of you  
I went wandering  
I went drifting through the capitals of tin  
Where men can't walk  
Or freely talk  
And sons turn their fathers in_

_I went with nothing_  
_But the thought you'd be there, too_  
_Looking for you_  
_I went out there in search of experience_  
_To taste and to touch and to feel as much_  
_As a man can before he repents_  
_I went out searching, looking for one good man_  
_A spirit who would not bend or break_  
_Who could sit at his father's right hand_

_The Wanderer – U2 with Johnny Cash_

FBI Agent Jenna Marks, a petite young woman with a sensible short haircut, didn't get too close. She kept an eye on the three men while she called, again, for backup. It sucks to be the low woman on the totem pole, especially if that totem pole is in Long Island at 2 a.m.

The first man, Mr. John Smith (if that was his real name), the heroic homeless man, tall, craggy, and weather-beaten, sat hunched on a concrete wall at the parking lot threshold. He was shaking. He smelled. His face was nearly covered by a tobacco-stained beard and filthy watch-cap, long white hair straggling down from underneath. He was dressed for combat in army surplus, so it seemed only fitting that he'd beaten the tar out of the second man.

The second man was dressed in a white doctor's smock, and wore a security badge for one "Sidney Perlmutter, NYC Coroner's Office." But the driver's license in his wallet named him one Darrell Wayne Bingham. Smith - who had no ID - had tackled Bingham, knocked him down with one punch, and Marks had handcuffed the suspect. Bingham was conscious, lying on his belly, apparently mumbling to the third man. It seemed almost like a chant, a rosary, the same phrase repeated with slight variations.

The third man was partially encased in a Long Island Coroner's Office body bag that exhibited traumatic zipper failure. He had fallen off the overturned gurney with a sickening crunch. His charred head and shoulders extended out of the rumpled bag. The whole thing looked like an oversized, half-incinerated campfire hot dog. The body bag was marked "John Doe, possible ID Jerald Tyson." But Bingham referred to the body as 'Mike'.

"We're gonna find him, Mike. we're gonna take him down for what he did to us. Piece by piece. Everyone he loves. We're gonna dress them up like a wax museum and throw him a surprise party he'll never forget. First the bride. Then the girl. Then your mom." Bingham giggled a little. "Dead meat. Like a wax museum."

Agent Marks said, "Mr. Smith, why did you help me?"

Smith chuckled. "I dunno, missy. I saw this guy running with a gurney, body bag. I was a medic in 'Nam. Didn't make sense, why'd he be running in the middle of the night? Away from the morgue?"

"It was brave, sir, but unnecessary. I almost had him."

The old man's brown eyes went sharp, then faded again. "Sorry, miss, but those short little legs? You might never ha' caught him. They shouldn't have' posted you here alone."

Agent Marks thought, _"Chauvinist butt-hole."_ She said stiffly, "Sir, I am with the FBI and fully trained to handle emergencies. My partner should be here any moment, along with the local police." Her partner was probably passed out drunk with a stripper somewhere in a Montauk Highway motel. He hadn't answered his phone.

"Well, they ain't here now," he said. "Look, any chance you could get me a cup of coffee while we wait for your buddies?" He pulled a flask of rotgut from the pocket of his camo jacket, drank from it and then retched a little. "I'm havin' a war with my liver and I need reinforcements."

"I'm not a waitress, sir. I'm an agent."

"Water? Maybe a blanket?" He leered. "Tuna sandwich?"

She sighed. "All right." She went to the trunk of her car, opened it, rummaged for a protein bar, turned back to him. "Here you..."

Jackson Hunt / John Smith was gone. Vanished into thin air.

Marks called out, "Sir?" But she couldn't leave her prisoner. Her voice echoed through the parking garage. She heard sirens approaching. Someone must have called the local police. They pulled in a moment later, followed by a marked FBI van.

The false Dr. Perlmutter was still talking. "First the bride. Then the girl. Last, your mom, that bitch. They're all dead meat. Dead. Meat. First the bride. Then the girl. Then your mom. Just like you said, Mike. Make them all pay. Dead meat."

Marks shivered, and had to hide tears of relief. This man was the scariest perp she'd ever encountered.

A slim, sharp, red-haired woman strode over to Marks, offering her hand to shake with a brief smile. "Agent Marks? I'm Agent Jordan Shaw."

The young woman nodded and pointed to her suspect. "Medical ID badge reads as Sidney Perlmutter, Manhattan central coroner's office. Look at his driver's license."

"Darrell Wayne Bingham." Shaw ran a UV flashlight over the card. "Fake. But a good start." Shaw surveyed the killer, and the body. She listened to Bingham's rosary for a moment, and arched an eyebrow at Marks. "Holy crap, what a wingnut."

* * *

In the morning's small hours, Jackson Hunt's van pulled to the shadows of the trees alongside the road to his son's summer home. He'd heard the chatter. Knew that Captain Gates and Perlmutter were heading in from Manhattan, that Bingham was waiting for a call from a woman he wouldn't name. Having tracked Bingham down and helped deliver him to the FBI, he was content to let Jordan Shaw take the kidnap investigation – if it was a kidnapping – to its next steps. He was well-acquainted with her reputation and trusted her.

He removed the homeless-grime makeup, the watch-cap/wig combo, and the smelly old camo jacket, then donned a black turtleneck and bullet-proof vest. It did not say "Writer's Dad" on it. Maybe for father's day.

He debated the wisdom of having blocked the media transmissions from the scene, but not too much. The people who might show up fell into four classes: legitimate law enforcement, legitimate well-wishers/family, gawkers/media/vultures, and actual threats. He figured the local law would do a decent job of keeping the unauthorized in check. There was no knowing whether they'd find a lead to Richard's whereabouts anyway – whether he'd been vaporized in the explosion or abducted, transported or hidden, vanished into thin air. But Jackson sifted through the intel, his ears attuned to masked signals and coded discussions. So far, nothing popped except a call from a burner phone: "Meet me south of the crash site. Bring the jeep." He didn't know that Shaw had intercepted the call, and that Gates and Tori accompanied Perlmutter to the location. The local FBI was spread thin with the three kidnapped girls.

He was deeply fearful that his son had not survived the crash. He'd looked at the preserve's info on the site, but of course since the old tunnels were sealed off, they didn't show up on the map (although the old tunnel did show a very faint impression on the satellite image, it was shaded somewhat by trees, which Rick would have pointed out had he been there). Maybe he was tired, getting old, jet-lag from his recent Ukraine mission kicking in. He wasn't one for excuses in a work scenario, but he'd made a lot of excuses in his personal life. And now it was time to step up for his son again, because the threat fanned out to Richard's family, to his friends, and to Kate. Jackson was determined to be there, this time, to make up for the many times he'd failed them.

Kate had taken off in Rick's mustang fifteen minutes before, stealing past the sleeping local cop who was supposedly guarding the house. He considered following her, but instinct told him to stay and guard the house. She was good at taking care of herself, whereas Martha and Alexis were defenseless. It was still mostly dark. Dawn was only a pale hint when, 45 minutes later, lights went on in the downstairs guest rooms at Castle's summer house. Moments after that, Kevin Ryan and Elena Parish dashed out of the house, jumped into Ryan's car, and careened down the driveway and past him, roaring toward the crash site. The scanner caught calls for additional ambulances and backup at the crash site. Lights went on all over the house, and Hunt bit his lip in apprehension. He watched and waited, somehow certain that Bingham and the late, charred 'Michael' (whoever he was) weren't acting alone.

Hunt sat up suddenly, attracted by motion from the police car. The local cop got out of the car, paused to look around, and moved with a too-stealthy air to the front porch, then peered in the window. Smitten by the urge to move, Hunt armed himself and went for the back patio.

He peered in the kitchen window. From this angle, he couldn't see the intruder. Alexis was pouring iced tea out of a pitcher into a reusable go-cup, from which she sipped. He smiled proudly. Sensible girl: it was going to be a warm day, and coffee would just make her jittery. But she'd made a pot of coffee, poured a mug, and headed to the guest room where her grandmother was still likely sleeping off whatever she'd gotten bombed on the night before (and who could blame her?). Hunt moved around to the side of the house.

From the shadows near the pool cabana Hunt saw a panel truck - marked with the local newspaper's logo - pull into the driveway with its headlights dark. Two men got out. Usually newspaper distributors don't carry guns.

Hunt wasn't entirely sure who was in the house: Alexis and Martha, probably Kate's father, maybe Detective Ryan's wife. Did these men intend to take everyone, or simply the women Rick loved most?

Hunt had cased the house a while back while working undercover as a contractor for/with Richard's "Guy-I-know-who-upgrades-alarm-systems". He'd also swept the house for bugs, found only one in the bedroom light fixture, but had been unable at the time to determine where it transmitted to, probably because whoever was listening in at the time knew that Castle was in Manhattan, so wasn't bothering to monitor this channel.

He slipped to the largest guest room window and peered in to see Alexis with her hand on Martha's shoulder. The window was open to the fragrant ocean air.

"Gram," Alexis was shaking the older woman's shoulder. "Gram, they've found something. Wake up." Martha groaned and rolled over. "Gram!"

Hunt couldn't believe that, under the circumstances, they weren't more vigilant. _"Open window? Really?"_ But then, he was dealing with Martha, and she was a tad on the impulsive side, the sort who'd leave her windows open wide during kidnapping season.

His knuckle tapped the window frame softly, and he poked his head in. "Alexis, it's me. Be quiet."

Alexis' startled gaze flew to the window and she hurried over, scowling. "What in hell are you doing here?" she hissed. "Are you part of this?"

Hunt pulled himself into the room, not bothering to address her disrespect. He motioned for quiet and whispered, "Who's in the house with you?"

"Where's my dad?"

"I don't know, but there's a stranger in the living room. He's dressed as a cop. Two others moving in on the side and back."

He climbed in the window, closed it silently, pulled the drape. "Is anyone from NYPD here?"

Alexis' eyes went wide with fear. "No. We got a call from Detective Esposito, something's happening, he didn't say what. Kate disappeared sometime in the night. I think she took Dad's old mustang."

Hunt smiled grimly. "She's a force of nature."

"What should we do?"

Hunt thought a moment. "You held up really well back in Paris. You need to run, but you might need to fight."

She nodded. "You want us to present a small target?"

"Yes, like before. And a lively one. First, wake Martha." Alexis pulled off Martha's sleep mask and placed a hand over her mouth. Alexis said, "Gram. Wake up. Come on." Martha didn't react. Alexis dripped a little iced tea on her grandmother's face. Martha startled awake, her blue eyes darting about. "Grams. Shh. Mr. Hunt's here."

Being older, Martha's eyes took time to adjust in the dark. Hunt said, "We need to get you two out of the house safely. Let's move the bed to block the door."

Hunt locked it without a sound, and then he and Alexis picked up the wood-framed, double bed and carried it over, nudging it against the door frame. He checked out the window, then vaulted out. "You first, Martha. Alexis, give your grandma a boost."

Martha was relatively limber for her age, but it was still an effort for her. She perched on the frame, hesitating, and he swept her into his arms. She swatted at him. "I can do it my–" but he already had her on the ground.

"Goodness," said Martha, blushing. "That was stimulating."

Alexis clambered out, whispering "Someone tried the door."

He nodded, "Stay together. Head for the cabana, and if you encounter anyone, make noise. Don't be afraid to wake the neighbors. Keep moving, and go for the eyes and groin if they get close."

Alexis picked up a lawn gnome hidden in the flowerbed. She'd bought it for her dad as a joke. It was grimacing and holding a little chain saw that glinted with silver paint in the soft light from the open window. "I'm ready."

The two women headed to the cabana, staying low.

Hunt heard a baby crying. He stepped to the next window over, to see a young, blonde woman – Jenny Ryan - walking her little one around the guest room. This window was locked, and he was afraid to startle her. The door burst open as he watched, and the "cop" advanced into the room, pistol first.

"Oh, my God!" she cried, and shrank back against the wall. "What do you want?"

With no advantage going in the window, Hunt broke down the locked back French doors with a crash and hurried into the great room. James Beckett was there, already tied, a piece of duct tape over his mouth, his face a bit banged up, and his opponents – the newspaper delivery men - looking quite the worse for wear. They saw Hunt and made for the front door, pushing James before them. They opened the door, and to Hunt's astonishment, a silenced 44 brought first one down, then the other.

Jim Beckett froze, staring at the source of gunfire on the porch, that had lain in wait for his assailants. He could say nothing because of the tape over his mouth, but his expression spoke plainly: "What the hell?"

Jenny Ryan's screams ripped through the house. "No! Let her go! PLEASE!" The baby was screaming too. The cop emerged from the guest room, moving sideways, the baby tucked unhappily under his left arm, her tiny limbs flailing helplessly, Jenny Ryan with her hands cable-tied behind her back, under his right arm with a gun at her throat. Jenny pleaded "Please, support her neck, she's barely even crawling yet..."

Amateur.

Hunt stepped in behind him, silent, waiting for his move as he took in his dead accomplices. The armed person from the front porch stepped into the living room. She was a tall, slim, silver-haired woman in peach-colored silk charmeuse pajamas and kitten-heel brocade slippers. Her steady gaze swept over Hunt but didn't pause on him as she spoke to the fake cop, "Let them go and I won't kill you."

The cop snickered, "Right, Grannie. Let _me_ go and I won't kill..."

Her bullet punched right through the cop's skull. His grip failed on Sarah Grace, and Hunt, who'd been crouched low behind him, caught her easily. Jenny hip-checked her assailant and ducked away, and the gun flew out of his hand as he fell sideways, twitching, onto the floor.

Aunt Teresa went to her brother and yanked the duct tape off his mouth.

Jim's mouth just hung open, and he squinted at her as if his entire mind was being rearranged.

"You're welcome," she grinned.

Hunt pulled a jackknife, and unbound Jenny's hands, then folded and tossed it to Teresa, who caught it easily and cut through the duct tape around Jim's wrists.

Jim was still staring at his sister in complete astonishment. "Tee?"

She turned to Hunt, who was handing Sarah Grace off to her tearful mommy. "What are you calling yourself lately?"

"Jackson Hunt." He gestured around at the corpses. "For these purposes. And you?"

She nodded. "Good to see you again." Offered her hand and they shook. "Teresa Beckett Powers." She added, "I'm widowed." She put the safety on her gun and tucked it into her kimono pocket.

Hunt said, "You're looking well."

Jim said, "You two know each other? Who is this man?"

"I'm Richard's father." He offered a hand to Jim, who shook hands, then his head.

Teresa frowned slightly. "Small world." She tilted her head. "That's just... Are you sure?"

Hunt shrugged. "Reasonably. What have you been up to for the last thirty-odd years?"

"Oh, public relations," said Teresa breezily. "Jenny, we have things under control here, don't alarm your husband for now, ok?"

Jenny nodded absently, still trying to cope with her own shock. She was sitting on the couch, trying to comfort Sarah Grace, who had never been handled so rudely before. The Princess was seriously offended but unharmed.

"Speaking of 'under control', I need to find Martha and Alexis," said Hunt.

Teresa nodded. "I'll remain here in case anyone else wants to join the festivities." She added, "Jimmy, could you find some sheets, or throws? Cover these boys up." Jim, who'd been watching this exchange in a state of complete shock, nodded.

Hunt charged out the back door, toward the cabana. He knocked, heard a crash, went in. Alexis was armed with the pool skimmer, prodding with the aluminum handle at a fourth man who must have come up from the beach. The lawn gnome was no more. Martha was trying to unlock Alexis' phone and dial 911 in the dark, huddled next to the life jackets and boogie boards.

Hunt hooked the man around the knee and dropped him hard on the cement floor, then held the man down. Alexis switched the light on. The floor was pebbled with rounded green and blue beach glass. It was very pretty, the man's blood running red in the grouting. Hunt flipped him over on his belly and cuffed him, a knee in the middle of his back. The man grunted and cursed.

"Is everything okay now?" Alexis quavered.

"It's safe back at the house. Why don't you head on back, and I'll have a little talk with our friend here."

Martha was still trying to figure out Alexis' phone. The girl reached out to her. "Here, let me do that, Gram."

"I've almost got it, what's the unlock code again?" Martha's hands were shaking, but she was determined not to look rattled.

Hunt said, "Don't call 911 yet. Just go get dressed, eat a little something. The living room's a mess, but everyone who matters is fine. Keep your eyes open on the way back to the house, and raise holy hell if anyone messes with you."

Alexis hefted her pool cleaner. "Got it." He smiled at her determined little face.

Martha and Alexis skirted the two men. Martha paused in the doorway. "It's good to see you have your priorities straight."

He nodded. "About time, huh?"

A slice of sun floated on the ocean, casting her tired face in a golden glow. Something bittersweet lit up in her eyes. She patted her sleep-mussed hair and said, "I must look a fright."

He shook his head. "You're more beautiful than the day we met."

She turned with a smile and left for the house with Alexis. He turned, also with a smile, toward his captive. "Now. Where is Richard Castle, and who's in on this?"

It's a delicate art, getting information from a source without causing actual screaming, but that's why a syringe full of truth serum comes in so handy. Never leave home without it.

* * *

After marrying Kate, Rick fell silent, his head still on her chest. She almost wondered if he was asleep, but she felt waves of deep tremors moving through his body. He whispered, "Starting to hurt a little now." Clearly that was an understatement. His face had gone white and clammy under the layer of dirt, and his good hand clenched in a tight fist. Lanie came over to them and crouched down at Kate's shoulder, peering into Rick's face.

"Castle, do you know what Kelly Nieman gave you?"

"Something fruity in a water bottle."

Lanie sighed. "I'm afraid to OD you if we don't know what you have in your system. How you doin'?"

"Not so good," he breathed.

Kate called over to Mohammed Atah, who was giving Betsy a belly rub, preparing to take her back to the van. "If we gave the dogs a possession of the suspect's, could they find her other things in the rubble?"

Mo grinned. "Betsy could find a needle in a needle store."

"Okay then," said Lanie. "How about the dress?"

"That has my scent on it too," Kate said. "Might confuse her."

Atah nodded. "It'll do in a pinch, but..."

Gates called to Officer Ellis. "Any of the perp's personal effects in the jeep?"

Tori Ellis appeared a moment later with a red, curly wig. "I think she was going for Bernadette Peters but it was probably more like Bozo the Clown."

Mo took the wig in hand and let Wilbur and Betsy go to town on it. Betsy knew how to differentiate between a person and their stuff. They'd practiced this. She had the scent: cigarette smoke, rose perfume, and evil. Betsy woofed and did a little bow and a happy dance. _Ready._ Mo spoke to Beckett. "What are we looking for?"

Beckett shrugged a little, and Rick groaned – she'd bumped his broken nose. "Oh, sorry, Babe!" She thought a moment. "A syringe... a water bottle... a shoulder bag. And a gun."

Rick shivered. "Red pearl handle 38." He added, "No oysters."

Lanie looked at Castle more closely. She grumbled, "I don't have much of a kit with me. Wish the goddamn ambulance would get here." They could hear sirens but they were far off, growing louder, but not fast enough.

Rick said, "You could amputate my hand. Always wanted a robot hand."

Lanie glanced at Kate. "Let's have a look."

Beckett shifted back away from Castle, supporting his shoulders. His head lolled forward a little, and he hunched in pain. "Lanie's going to look at your hand. Rick? Can you sit up straight?"

"Castle, you're gonna be okay." Lanie looked under the blanket at his right hand. It was wrapped in spirals of black gaffer's tape but clearly swollen, the fingers a deep purple. Lanie scowled in the general direction of Kelly Nieman's ambulance. "Lady, when I get my hands on you..."

"Sorry," Rick mumbled. He didn't want to open his eyes. He was leaning on Mephistopheles, and Mephistopheles' snake-head-tail was slowly chewing away at Rick's hand with jaws of fire. "Just eat it, I don't want it any more," he mumbled. "Give the devil his due."

Meph's voice was sweet, familiar. "Hang on, babe, the ambulance is coming." The hounds of hell bayed, and Meph added more loudly, "Hey. Did you find the bottle?"

Rick was too tired to respond. Meph felt surprisingly soft, wrapping him in her huge hands that felt like blankety bat-wings.

Petros walked up to Meph and said, "Betsy found the whole bag. All kinds of meds in here. Look like stolen prescriptions."

The ambulance drove up. The paramedics had trouble getting the stretcher down the steep, crumbling stairs. It would be worse getting it back up.

Lanie looked through the bag. "This woman could've opened her own pharmacy." She sniffed the water bottle, then stuck a finger in and tasted it. She grimaced. "Quite the cocktail. I'm guessing morphine, cocaine, and cherry flavored syrup." Betsy would have confirmed that if anyone had known how to ask the question so she could answer it.

"My God," Beckett murmured. "The Shirley Temple from hell."

"Fun while it lasted," Castle gasped.

Betsy came up, close and quiet, and leaned against Pillow Case Kate. She sniffed the lovely woman delicately. Pillow Case Kate was wrapped nicely around Pillow Case Rick, who radiated pain. Betsy nudged Rick, then laid a heavy paw on his leg. _"You're sick, Big Rick. Lie down. Good boy."_

He tried to politely shake her paw, but she wouldn't let him: faked him out with her paw, nudging him again. But he wouldn't lie down, just leaned harder against his love-and-worry-scented Kate. Betsy could smell infection beginning, particularly under the tape on his hand, and dehydration, the toxin damage in his liver now inflamed by a delay in medication he should have taken the night before. She could smell the love and fear and grief they shared. She moaned gently and, unable to help herself, shoved her nose between Kate's legs. Kate looked down at her mournfully. "Silly girl."

Betsy knew Kate couldn't pet her because she was already cuddling Rick, and she'd been trained not to come between snuggling humans. But she rubbed her forehead against Kate's belly and woofed softly. That's how dogs congratulate one another when they're carrying puppies. A tiny, _tiny_ bundle of healthy cells had implanted and put down microscopic blood-vessel-roots in Kate's uterus. It was already sending out placental hormones, preparing Kate's body to grow a little one. Betsy, who had officially adopted these lovely people as her own, was one proud auntie. She thought, _"It's a boy."_

Mo said, "Sorry, she can be sort of bossy. Come on, girl."

Castle was shivering. He put his left hand on Betsy's wrinkled forehead, rubbing her with his thumb, the way he had with Royal. He tried to smile. "I like strong women."

Beckett looked over at Ryan. "Can you have our family meet us at the hospital?"

Ryan nodded. "I'll get right on it. Just called Jenny and Alexis and left messages that he's alive. Felt like a shame not to tell them in person but nobody's picking up."

Kate was too absorbed in Castle for that to sink in. The paramedics finally got Castle onto the gurney, and with the two of them, plus Esposito, and Ryan at the corners, they carried him up the embankment, wheeled him to the ambulance, then lifted him in. Kate rode with him in the back, along with Perlmutter, reluctantly, on his own stretcher. She tried to stay out of the way of the paramedic, a big, possibly Samoan heritage man, named Fred Momoa. He spoke to Castle: "We're gonna keep you awake and talking, ok?"

Castle said, "Want Kate."

Perlmutter was babbling a little. "You know ambulances are extremely unsafe. Sometimes they explode without warning."

Momoa was in fact placing an oxygen cannula in Rick's nose (which, it may have been mentioned a few times, had been broken by the airbag). He gritted his teeth in pain. The paramedic cleaned his arm off and gave him a local, then set about cutting off his jacket, shirt, and finally the rest of the gaff-tape sling, where Kelly had left the sticky side directly in contact with Rick's skin. The local hadn't quite taken effect, and Castle swore, nearly sick with agony. Kate held his left hand, stroking his hair, trying to stay out of the way. His body was covered with bruises, the left arm and side shredded and caked with dry blood and bat shit from pulling himself down the tunnel. Kate reached for the container of wipes and Momoa smiled thanks for her help, even though technically she wasn't supposed to do anything other than hold Castle's hand.

Perlmutter said to Kate, "I want someone to check on Arlene."

Kate could barely contain her impatience. "Dr. Perlmutter, we have a real person here."

"Define _real_," Perlmutter snarled. Then he took a breath. "Look, I'm sorry, but if it weren't for my better half, I wouldn't even be here, and maybe neither would you."

Kate narrowed her eyes, incredulous. "You really think..."

"Did you have any dolls as a child, Detective? Or may I call you Kate now that I've saved your life?"

"Well, uh. Sure, Kate's fine. Most people call me Beckett though..."

Perlmutter continued. "Kate. Have you ever have phone sex?" Her mouth opened and closed.

"Ever get intimate with an object, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral, that was not considered strictly human?" She just kept her mouth closed, debating whether to punch him.

Castle turned to Perlmutter, mildly amused and trying to distract himself from the pain. "I sing duets with my steering whale. Wheel. Nobody else can hear us."

Perlmutter persisted, flogging a dead horse. "Ever told all your troubles to a mirror? Cuddled a pillow? Yelled at ATM that wouldn't give you your money? Tried to joke with an anonymous voice on the phone? Been startled by a mannequin that at first you thought was human? Been reluctant to tear up the photo of a former lover, even though you wish them no harm?"

Castle mumbled, "She's scared of my lion poster."

Beckett smacked him gently. "Castle talks to his computer." But she thought of her mom's photo, and her headstone. They'd had talks.

Castle said, "I have a lot of imaginary friends." He looked at Momoa. "You might be one of them, because you're sticking an arm in my needle and I can't feel a think."

Momoa blushed and grinned shyly. He had hooked Rick's left elbow up to a hydration bag. "I'm a fan." He added, "You're pretty dehydrated, this should help you feel better pretty soon."

Perlmutter said, "You're on Tweeter, Mr. Castle. I'm one of your three-plus million followers, although it's only to see what inane thing you'll think of next. Do you know who I am? Do you think I'm a 12-year-old girl from Scotland or a Russian spam-bot or a kid named Bester42 who writes mystery novels and wants to be just like you?"

"You're Bester42?" Castle was shocked.

Momoa grinned at Castle. "I'm Fangrrl78."

Castle's sleepy eyes went wide. _"Really?"_

Beckett said, "You write the fanfic where Nikki's sidekick is a honey badger?"

Fangrrl78, also known as "Fred Momoa," grinned. "Yeah. I even won a crack fic contest."

Castle said, "That's a good one, though I thought the thing with the Ferris wheel was a bit far-fetched."

Beckett stroked Castle's hair and smiled at Fangrrl78. "I thought it was cute."

Castle murmured, "That's gotta be a first."

Perlmutter nattered on. "No. It doesn't matter who _I_ am. Who _any_ of us are. My point is, we're _all_ imaginary to the people we haven't met. And where does your imagination of Beckett end, and the reality of Nikki Heat begin? Did Beckett just happen to fit your half-baked notion of a muse? Would you have written books about her if she'd been 4'11, or built like the Creamy Dream Marshmallow Girl, or been a sanitation worker?" Perlmutter drawled. "No. I'm sure it was her soulful green eyes."

"So," Castle said dreamily. "It doesn't matter whether Arlene is all in your head or not."

"Which makes my relationship with her a good deal more pure than the one you have with one another, if I might say so myself. I'll never hurt her feelings, she'll never move away or find another lover, I'll never put her on a slab because I killed her in a fit of jealous rage..."

Beckett, for some reason, was starting to feel really queasy. (For some expectant mothers, it happens that fast. Ask around, you'll hear some amazing stories). She said, "That's never gonna happen."

"Do you really _love_ one another? Or just possess one another? Of course that's none of my business, but I'm never gonna be out of a job as long as 'true love' turns into obsession and rage. I own Arlene, but she'll never own me. And she'll never betray me."

Beckett was feeling downright green. She grimaced, and Perlmutter took her expression for disgust at him. He continued, "I deal enough with death and loss in my life. I'm middle-aged, have mild halitosis, crooked teeth, overactive apocrine glands, and a receding hairline. My very best day will never be as good as Mr. Castle's worst."

Castle's anesthesia was taking effect again. He giggled. "That's detabable. You're kind of cute, Pearly. Merlputter."

Perlmutter shook his head. "You wouldn't want to date me, so don't patronize me."

Castle said, "It's the grugs."

"The drugs wear off, but the attitude..." Perlmutter looked at Kate, his brown eyes sad. "Men like me don't wind up with women like you. I'll take my chances with Arlene rather than settling for some miserable beta female who can barely get off the couch to find herself another carton of ice cream."

Castle said, "I'd like to meet this Arlene."

Kate said, "Castle, she's a love doll."

Perlmutter scowled. "She's a Living Doll. Registered Trademark."

"Really? Inflatable or the silly kind? Cone. Silly cone."

Perlmutter's eyes went wide, surprised that Castle would have the slightest inkling of the difference. "Japanese made, finished in the US to specification at the New Jersey factory. Silicone over a lightweight titanium alloy armature."

"Spendy."

Perlmutter chuckled. "Arlene was worth every penny."

Castle smiled dreamily, eyes closed, and murmured, "It's still kinda weird," and Kate vowed silently to herself that she was going to kick Boba Fett out of the bathroom, once and for all.

* * *

The sun had risen over the sea southeast of them, flooding the pretty room with hopeful light. Alexis pulled the blinds closed. She feared the worst. The bird clock struck Red Wing Blackbird: 6 a.m. Richard Castle had been missing for nineteen hours.

Martha and Jackson were sitting on a bench on the back deck. Alexis heard her grandfather making a call, presumably to a contact in the FBI. "Hey, it's me. Yeah, three perps in the house, DOA. One in the cabana, bring him in for further questioning. I have a rendezvous – ready for the address?" He rattled it off, a boathouse in Montauk. "Yeah, it's a cruiser, he was expecting to meet with the three at the house, drive the Castle women to the boat, kill anyone else in there. No, they're ok, no civvy casualties. Yeah, I know. Some asshole posing as local police – I should go check the trunk of the patrol car, I was in a hurry."

Martha stared. "You just left someone in the trunk?"

Hunt shrugged and motioned for her to be quiet. "Oh, that's... Miss Rodgers." He paused, listening, and gave Martha a sly smile. "Yes, the actress. No, I won't say I know her but we're acquainted." He listened again. "That's hardly professional, but I'll ask." He winked at Martha. "Wants an autograph. Yeah, I want a crime scene cleanup unit in the house, stat. They've dealt with enough. Yeah, you too. Thanks, I owe ya."

Martha looked askance at her sons' father. "I take it you know a guy," she said drily.

He laughed, the crinkle in his eyes making him look middle-aged instead of just old and sad.

"Yeah."

Jenny was sitting in the easy chair, nursing a sleepy Sarah Grace. Jim and Teresa had covered up the corpses so nobody had to look at them while they waited for the cleanup team, then gone out onto the front porch with cups of hot tea. Teresa explained, at least to an extent, her 'public relations' career, which had been cover for a stint with the CIA that lasted through several decades and numerous administrations up to her move to the private sector in 1997. Jenny, Alexis, and Jim had all checked their messages, and only Jenny had gotten any news, from Ryan: _"Got called back to crash scene by Espo. Asked for Lanie too. Will let you know more asap." _That had been a half-hour ago, but it was four hours in Dog Years, and they all felt every minute of it.

Kate phoned Alexis, who saw her name on the caller ID. Alexis called out, "It's Kate!" Martha and Jackson hurried inside, and Alexis barely noticed that he had a steadying arm around Martha's shoulders.

Kate blurted, "He's alive, he's safe, I'm with him now."

Alexis could hear the siren in the background. She beamed over at her grandmother, who sat on the sofa, her hands encased in Jackson's. Alexis repeated the news, and everyone breathed an immense sigh of gratitude. "I'll put you on speaker. Where is he? Can we talk to him?" She sat next to her grandfather on the sofa, and they all stared at the phone in her trembling hands as if it was a live video remote, willing it to show them what they wanted to see.

Kate's voice was calm, but her happiness read loud and clear over the scratchy signal and wailing siren. "He's in a lot of pain and under sedation, so he's a little loopy."

"I fine," Castle slurred. "Hey, Punkin."

"We're in an ambulance. Your dad's been hurt but..." she glanced at Fred Momoa, who gave her a thumbs up. "He'll be all right. I think he'll need some surgery, but it doesn't look like anything life threatening." The ambulance swung around a corner, and Kate swayed with its motion. She nudged Castle, who was drifting in and out. She wanted to make sure he didn't have a concussion as much as anything. "Castle. I have Alexis on the phone," she reminded him, and switched it to speaker mode. "Alexis, you want to say hi to your dad?"

"Hey, Punkin." He tried to smile, but it looked broken.

"Dad! I'm so glad you're ok."

Tears streamed from his swollen eyes. "Ine fime. I'mfine. Don' do drugs, Punkin."

Alexis said, puzzled, "I won't, Daddy, you know that..."

"I know, I knowIknow. I lu' you, Punkin. Pump. Kin."

Martha's voice came over the speaker. "Richard."

Eyes closed, a lump in his throat, the word barely made it through his lips. "Mommy."

Kate stared at him in alarm and took his good hand. He held on tightly.

"What? Richard?" A new kind of anxiety pierced Martha. "You haven't called me 'Mommy' since... ever."

"I gotta talk-a you. Meph says issalla your fault but Petros says you dinnow."

Many confused glances were exchanged on both sides of the phone. "Richard, Darling, I don't understand."

Beckett put a gentle finger on Castle's lips. It struck her anew that he'd been through emotional hell as well as physical. She said, "Martha, can we talk at the hospital... what is it, East Hampton General?"

Momoa nodded and spoke to the cel phone. "Corner Suffolk and Green."

Kate added, "Meet us there?"

"Of course, we'll be there as soon as possible." Martha was weeping with relief, but dread crept in on her.

Perlmutter said loudly, "I'll be amazed if we make it to the ER alive."

Alexis said, "What was that?"

Kate said, "Just Dr. Perlmutter."

Alexis had forgotten they were on speaker. "Oh, my God, he's not taking care of my dad, is he?"

"No," Kate said. "Dr. Perlmutter was hurt in the line of duty. He saved my life." She smiled at Perlmutter and he gawped at her, then turned beet-red and stared away out the back door window.

"So she actually noticed," he drawled.

Alexis said, "Really? Wow, thank you, Dr. Perlmutter. That was really sweet."

Perlmutter just shook his head, still blushing. "Line of duty, Miss Castle. _Sweetness_ has nothing to do with it."

"Aw, Pearly, you're a swee'guy." Rick mumbled.

* * *

Jim drove Jenny, the baby, Martha, and Alexis to the hospital, with Teresa riding shotgun in case 'Michael' had a plan D. Jackson Hunt and Martha followed in his van. Martha found the van fascinating – outside it was a simple, somewhat careworn older vehicle. In back was a state-of-the-art surveillance center crammed with devices she could barely begin to understand.

She sat back in the comfy passenger seat, sipping coffee from a go-cup Alexis had made for her. "So this is where your partner does stakeouts with you?"

Hunt grinned. "I normally work alone, but, yeah. Theoretically."

"Teresa?"

"Just a work associate. Barely acquainted, back in the 80s, when she was stationed overseas. Are you jealous?"

"A little bit." Martha grinned. "Although Richard tells me stakeouts can be dull as dishwater."

Hunt nodded. "True." He punched some buttons as he drove. Martha heard some chatter, some in Chinese and Russian, Spanish and several languages she couldn't identify. They listened in on a police radio call, which if Martha had known, was Sheriff Kloskins: "Yeah, some dirtbag in an Escalade tried to cut our ambulance off. Dunno how many perps were in on this, but she's at the center of something big. If we can get the whole story out of her we might find those girls... Frickin' useless FBI..."

Hunt turned the radio off with a sigh. Martha stared away out of the window, looking for glimpses of the sea between ritzy beach houses. She said in a small voice, "Did you know about Michael?"

"Michael who?" He looked genuinely puzzled.

Martha pressed her fingers over her eyes. "Richard's twin brother."

Hunt's eyes went wide. "Jeezus Christ, Martha, are you kidding me?"

"No." She paused, and swallowed. "He was the body. In the car."

Hunt kept his eyes on the road, blinking tears. "Shit. Are you saying 3XK subbed him for Richard?" He shook his head and growled. "Bastard."

"Not exactly. 3XK was Richard's twin."

"Oh, no." Jacksons face was set, masklike, white. "You think it was a suicide?"

"I don't know," she said miserably. "All I know is he... he was our son. And we both failed him."

"How – did you give him up? How did I not know about this?"

She wasn't sure if he was angry with himself, but he sounded angry with her, and she snapped, "Where in hell were you when they were born? When did you start keeping tabs on us?"

"I- I was out of the country, I had to track you down, Richard was, I dunno, maybe five years old, six. I didn't even know you were pregnant, let alone we had a kid."

"It's not like you didn't have the resources..."

"I was MIA, ok?"

"Really. Where."

"Cambodia." He sighed, a hand passing down his cheek, then impatiently pushing through his thick white hair. She had to smile. In some ways, Hunt was so like her son. So like Richard. He added, "When I got back to the States I looked you up. Remember that ER bill of $7,462.03 that hung over you up till he was in kindergarten?"

She started to cry. "Their collections department sued me and I was making these stupid little payments at 12% interest. And then one day I got a statement with a zero balance, just out of the blue." She smiled at him, sidelong. "That was you?"

"I did what I could. But there weren't two babies listed on the bill. Just you in ICU and Richard in the nursery ward till they put you back together."

"I thought Michael was stillborn. I had them both at a back-alley clinic; I didn't know he'd survived. I never even got to name him. Never saw him."

"Oh, God, Martha," said Hunt, and reached over to clumsily pat her on the shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

For some reason, that set her off. "You're _sorry_. Where were you on Richard's wedding day? Why are you here now?"

"I _was_ there. I was just... not obvious."

"And obviously not looking in the right direction."

"That's true. I thought it would be no worse than a few paparazzi. I had no idea he was being stalked..."

"Michael had it out for them. We didn't know... who he was. That he was my... He was our son. I'm not even sure Richard knows."

Overwhelmed, Hunt retreated into work mode, concentrating on the logistics. "I can't believe there was no FBI buzz about it."

"They kept it tightly under wraps. Richard said they didn't want copy cats or stalkers moving in on them."

Hunt nodded. "Some serial killers form loose associations, help each other out. Create false alibis, even commit murder by proxy." His throat felt like he'd swallowed ashes, and tears spilled down his cheeks. Retreating into analysis failed him. The wall wasn't working anymore. Something about Martha had always worn it down, every time he'd spoken with her, no matter how briefly. It hurt to be around her, but it felt good, too, like a part of him was coming alive. He shuddered, thinking of the man he'd taken down in the parking lot. Thinking of how one of his sons had grown in to a decent, loving man, and the other had become a monster.

The burned body in the bag had been his own son's. And Alexander Blondin, also known as Don Williams, aka David B. Cooper, aka Horace Willoughby, aka Ignaz Lorkowski, aka Robert Cleary, aka Bill McKechnie, aka Jackson Hunt, could actually feel the pain. He let out a long, ragged breath. "My God."

Martha looked over at him in concern. "You realize none of this was your fault."

He shook his head, speechless. "I should have been there."

They pulled into the hospital parking lot, and the other car unloaded. Alexis ran back to Hunt's van. "You coming?"

Martha shook her head. "Katherine said your father's going into surgery, so I'm sure we have a little time. We'll be in soon, Darling."

Alexis looked doubtful. "Okaay. See you there."

Jackson's hands rested on the steering wheel. Martha took his right. "Let's go in the back for a moment."

He nodded silently, unable to speak. In the dark privacy of his surveillance van, he leaned on her fragile shoulders, and she held him through forty-three years' worth of un-shed tears.

* * *

Thanks to Wendy for pointing out we need a POV of Castle's family. More to come on that. :-)


	13. Chapter 13

TooSoon ch13

* * *

_**"Don't Dream It's Over"**_

_There is freedom within_  
_there is freedom without_  
_Try to catch a deluge in a paper cup_  
_There's a battle ahead_  
_many battles are lost_  
_But you'll never see the end of the road_  
_While you're traveling with me_

_[CHORUS]_  
_Hey now, hey now_  
_Don't dream it's over_  
_Hey now, hey now_  
_When the world comes in_  
_They come, they come_  
_To build a wall between us_  
_We know they won't win_

_Now I'm towing my car_  
_there's a hole in the roof_  
_my possessions are causing me suspicion but there's no proof..._

_Don't Dream It's Over – Crowded House_

* * *

Easthampton General was a perfect storm, and on a Memorial Day Monday, no less. Waves of traffic accident victims. A flood of the under-insured poor who'd been neglected to the point of emergency. They came in at their crisis points on a Sunday night and were still waiting ten hours hours later to 'be seen'. And they'd had a flurry of four crazies in one night, one redhead in lingerie, screeching blue murder, one man babbling on about wax museums. Someone in a stolen Escalade had rammed her ambulance on the way to the hospital and tried to 'rescue' her. Bullets had been exchanged, and they had three gunshot vics on the operating tables – one of them Police Chief Brady, another Sheriff Kloskins, plus the suspect. And more incoming. It wasn't even a full moon.

The ambulance carrying Kate, Castle, and Perlmutter was admitted at 6:34 a.m. Since both Castle and Perlmutter were conscious and relatively coherent, they had to take numbers.

_"Numbers!"_ Kate was livid and sat chewing the inside of her cheek, glowering – this alternating with holding Castle's hand and trying to keep his spirits up as he babbled about Mephistopheles and Betsy the Wonder Dog and someone named Declan. He seemed pretty clear that he'd killed 3XK, but there was more to the story, and she just couldn't make sense of it.

Alexis came in about twenty minutes after they arrived, followed by Jim, Aunt Teresa, and Jenny Ryan, carrying the baby in a sling. Alexis went straight to the gurney. "Daddy!"

Rick perked up out of a daze. "Hey, Pumpkin."

Kate relinquished his hand and looked around at their family. "Where's Martha?"

Jim said, "She'll be along in a moment."

Kate nodded. "I didn't want to leave him. You mind?"

Teresa Beckett had thoughtfully brought her niece an overnight bag with a change of clothes, hairbrush, toothbrush, deodorant, even underwear and moisturizer, other just-in-case toiletries. Mascara. Cherry scented lip gloss.

"Thanks, Aunt Tee, you think of everything!"

Jim said drily, "Is there a secret decoder ring in there too?"

Teresa rolled her eyes. Kate looked at the two of them, puzzled, then ran off to use the bathroom. She changed and cleaned up, then went to the service desk, wishing she had her badge and gun, or perhaps a cattle prod. "Nurse Simmons, I'm not trying to be rude, but I'm worried. My husband has a head injury and a gunshot wound. Last name's Castle."

The nurse shook her head. "According to the paramedic it's not life thr––"

"He's in pain. This is wrong."

Nurse Simmons waved her clipboard at the standing-room-only mess. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but all these folks are in pain."

Kate felt ashamed, but played the money card. "Look. We can make a cash donation to the hospital. Up front." She'd recovered Castle's wallet from his tux jacket before they threw it away. It smelled like bat-shit, but the money was still good, and there was a lot of it.

The nurse's face went hard. "Let's just pretend you didn't try to bribe me. Your number is 29. We have 34 patients waiting to be seen. Don't make me move him back."

"_Bribe_ you? I wasn't..." Kate began. She felt a hand on her arm and turned. "Alexis? Is he okay?"

Alexis gave her a little squeeze. "Gram's with him now. Look who else."

Kate looked over at her husband's gurney. Martha was holding Castle's hand. Jackson Hunt stood with his arm around Martha's shoulders. Kate scowled. "What the hell is..."

"Shh. He saved us. Someone attacked the beach house after you left this morning."

Kate's eyes went wide with horror. "My God. Are you all right?"

Alexis said, "Mostly." Her face was an odd mix of pride and distress. "I think my dad would say something like 'you should see the other guy.'"

Kate gave her a brief hug, and they hurried back to the gurney.

Over the hours since the crash, the bruising around Castle's eyes had deepened into twin purple butterfly wings, and with the swelling, he had to force them open. He looked up at his mother and croaked, "Peekaboo. I'm in ICU."

Martha was failing at not crying. "Hey, Kiddo." She kissed his left hand, careful not to touch the bandaged area he'd rubbed raw on the ground. He smiled a little.

"How's Alexis?"

Alexis patted his hand. "I'm fine, Daddy. I'm here."

"Aunty Em."

"What?"

"And you were there, and you..."

Alexis tried to laugh. "There's no place like home..."

Castle pursed his lips until they were white, and his breath hitched. "My everything hurts."

"The doctor will see you soon," said Hunt. "You've got a couple of shiners there, son."

"Shiny," murmured Rick. Exhausted and drugged, he was drifting out, hadn't even noticed his father talking to him. Hunt frowned in concern. He'd lied to Agent Marks about being a medic in Viet Nam (he'd actually been a pilot), but he'd seen enough fatal injuries to know his son was in trouble. "Is Dr. Parish on her way?"

Perlmutter's voice responded from the sidelines. "What, one coroner isn't enough for you?"

Hunt pointed to his son's face. "See the bruise pattern?"

Perlmutter approached, limping, and peered at Castle's face. He straightened up and hollered at Nurse Simmons, clear across the room. "Excuse me? Patient number 29 indicates bleeding on the brain, and if you don't take care of him, stat, you won't just lose your pants in the lawsuit. I will personally pick off all the stupid little doodads on your pink Crocs when you show up at the morgue DOA. So MOVE."

Oddly, this was the best thing he could have said.

* * *

•

Betsy the Wonder Dog could have told the doctors they'd given Castle the wrong drug. This wasn't their fault. They took an MRI and got him into surgery after getting only the briefest medical history, not knowing about the nature of the toxin that had nearly killed him the previous September (which was classified), or the drug he took regularly to counteract the liver damage. (His prescription - also experimental and classified - had been incinerated along with everything in his suitcase except a pair of very expensive quick-release handcuffs). Nor did they know all the ingredients of the speedball that Kelly Nieman had dosed him with that morning.

But they were in a hurry. And Castle lay on the operating table, feeling the sensation of ants crawling over his face as he went under, then nothing.

The doctors first went to work draining excess fluid from his brain with a drill and a stent. They reassembled his lower right arm as well as possible, although that was going to take a lot more work. They cleaned up and removed infected tissue on his left side and the underside of his upper left arm, to just below his elbow, along with a good part of his left pinkie and palm. And they cleaned up bone splintered off his right ilium, where he'd been hit with some blunt object or another, probably a chunk of cement. He'd been under for 93 minutes when he flatlined. All he heard was a long, drawn-out, whining beep.

* * *

He was sitting in the basement office at the Old Haunt, playing cards with Mephistopheles, Petros, and Captain Roy Montgomery. There was a fifth chair, but it was empty.

Dealing cards, Petros said, "Alarm's going off."

"Can you get that?" He could hear the beep, and people outside trying to get in, all upset about losing him. "Let's all just stay calm," he said, although nobody around the card table seemed that excited.

Mephistopheles said, "Don't get up, it'll take care of itself." The beep went on, but he ceased to notice it.

He looked across at Roy Montgomery with a warm smile. "Hey, Captain."

Montgomery smiled and echoed back at him. "Captain."

"I'm not the Captain," Rick said, puzzled.

"Sure you are," said Petros. "Captain of your soul."

"Cliche," said Mephistopheles. "Ante up." He put down a blackened poker chip that bubbled and smoked.

Montgomery set out an ancient red glass bottle. "I'm in, 'Captain _Castle_'."

"No, the new Captain is Gates."

Montgomery reminded him. "But you have the name plate to prove it."

Rick grinned. "That was a fun case. You would've loved hanging out at the station wearing an afro and a leisure suit."

Montgomery chuckled. "I thought I'd burned all the photos."

Outside, the commotion grew louder. At the top of the stairs, in the main bar, the door opened. Rick could see a bright light, hear people talking and howling with laughter. Stephen Cannell was telling a story, his voice ringing through the room. Rick would have known his laugh anywhere. Excited, Rick said, "You guys wait here... I'm just gonna..." He started up the stairs, but after just the first step, felt breathless, a heavy weight dragging on him. He heard Cannell say, "Adrenaline."

Meph had wrapped a huge, sparking hand around his ribcage. "Don't go toward the light, idiot. You're not done playing yet."

"Quit squeezing my chest."

"Quit struggling. Sit the fuck down," said Petros.

Montgomery said, "It's not just your game. There's a lot riding on this."

"Oh, yeah."

Meph shoved him back into his seat at the table, and somehow the heavy thud jerked his whole body; he felt as if he'd been shaken apart and put back together again. His head swam. The name plate was right in front of him. Captain Castle. His ante.

"I'm in?" He slid the name plate forward, wondering what game he was actually supposed to be playing. He found himself wanting to rearrange the letters, like Scrabble tiles in their little pew. Pew, pew, pew! Laser gun! _Han shot first._ He checked under the table, the gun was there, tucked into a duct tape holster, and all he had to do was pull the trigger. Can you kill your demons? Goodbye, Mephistopheles. He tilted the gun and squeezed the trigger. The bullet erupted through the table top, hit Mephistopheles right between the eyes and bounced off, cracking a light bulb in the chandelier. Tiny bats flew around Meph's head and his eyes crossed, but the demon just chuckled, looking up to watch them do-si-do-ing around the horns. The bullet ricocheted off the stamped-tin ceiling and Rick felt a blinding pain in his skull. He dropped his cards. "Fuck, what is that?"

"Too much bleeding on the brain," Petros said, and added, "I'm in." He set something down. It was, of course, a rock. Because Peter means rock. Rick's brain was dreaming. So, sorry, that's the best he was able to do.

He stared at the letters on his nameplate, reshuffling endlessly in his head, murmurating in the air like a flock of starlings. He tried to see the pattern, find the meaning:

"_Captain Castle"_

_Anal Cat Septic_ – I'd rather walk a dog than change a cat box

_Natal Cats Epic_ – ok, I really do love kittens

_Nasal Accept It_ – my nose is broken. Again.

_Natal Pace Tics_ – Beckett's pregnant, how do I know? She's glowing. Dirty, but glowing.

_Natal Act Epic_ – someone saved my brother then stole him. Was it my dad?

_Sealant Act Pic_ – how did they close up the tunnel under the Old Haunt?

_Catnap Tale Sic_ – I'm tleling myslef a sotry wihel I sleep

_Catnap Its Lace_ – I wonder what kind of underwear Kate's got on

_Sancta Place It_ – no, Place It Sancta –– something hidden, somewhere safe...

_Cacti Step Anal_ –– well, at least that didn't happen although it hurt to sit, just a little

_A Sceptical Ant_ –– Aunt Teresa's even scarier than Gates

_Slant At_ _Ipecac_–– I feel sick

Rick fought to concentrate. His cards were getting scrambled up, too. Five somethings ago he'd been holding four Three of Clubs and a Queen of Spades. Now he was down to one Three of Clubs, a Queen of hearts, a Queen of spades, a Jack of Spades, and something that might have been a receipt for some kind of repair. What got repaired? Why was it important? "I hate anagrams. We haven't even gotten to 'pants' yet, how many can there possibly be?"

"You're a writer, and pants are therefore optional. Over 13,000," Petros said, "Skip past anything with _ceca_ in it."

Mephistopheles was trying to conceal an ace in his codpiece. The fish was not having it. "I like intestines." The codfish wagged its tail hopefully.

"You would," said Montgomery.

Rick felt really awful. "Ugh. Too much. The letters are just spinning around. What time is it?"

Montgomery was looking at his own cards. "Time to try something new."

Rick looked back at his nameplate. "_Richard Castle_." Like the one on his desk at home.

He tried. Tried, tried, and couldn't get a single full anagram out of it. Something always missing.

"_Richard Alexander Rodgers."_

_In Cheddar Larder Ax Rogers _– was Tyson going to kill me in a cheese factory?

_Ax Record Dredger In Ashlar _– joining stone in a wall. Record dredger. Accountant? Huh.

The accountant/bookkeeper he'd hired for the Old Haunt had slipped and died in his bathtub, several months back. Castle had found a new one, Albert Grossmann, highly recommended. Grossmann spent most of his time down in the basement office. Seemed all right but... A lot of time. Too much time. The Old Haunt's books were hardly complicated.

_Regard Lard Sex In Hardcore _– uh, no

_Rodgers Charred... Rodgers Ireland Charred Ax _– that movie we were in, burning spears...

_In Arched Drag Relaxer Rods _– Secret door, when you push it pops the spring and... hey..

Rick looked up to find the fifth player. His brother, Michael. He'd come in from the secret tunnel behind the bookcase in the Old Haunt's basement office. The door was just swinging closed, and he heard, faintly, the voice of a girl crying out, "Let me out. Please!"

Mephistopheles pulled Michael's chair out for him and dealt him four cards, then said, "Ante up."

Michael looked over his shoulder. The bookcase slid into place over the entrance. He pulled a lock of blonde hair, tied with a piece of green-and-white shoelace, out of his tuxedo pocket and set it on the table before him. "I'm in."

Montgomery shook his head, a bit discouraged. "Careful, Castle. No victories."

Upstairs there was a roar of laughter. It was Cannell. He stuck his head in through the door. "Bullshit. Ricky, If there were no victories, you wouldn't be published, you wouldn't have Alexis, you wouldn't have won Kate over. The victories may be small and fleeting, but screw the long defeat, Ricky. Go for the win."

Castle grinned up at him, then looked over at Michael, who erupted into flame and hissed threateningly. Mephistopheles sat back, impressed. Michael said, "This is my game, Rodgers. MY game. You'll never win. Rosie will give you a makeover you won't believe. You won't even know yourself."

A strange sense of peace fell over Rick. He said, "I'm a sore loser. That won't change."

"You should fold while you still have time," said Mephistopheles. He wasn't talking to Rick.

Petros smiled over at Rick. "I see you. And I'll raise you." He stabbed Rick in the heart with a large syringe.

Castle heard a distant, regular beeping noise, which surprisingly matched the rhythm of his own heart. How odd.

* * *

They moved him to a private room and kept him in an induced coma for six days. Someone pulled some strings (and it may not have been completely legal or ethical) that allowed his family a round-the-clock vigil: his mother, his father, his daughter, his wife, her father. Nobody wanted him to awaken alone in a hospital bed. The room was also guarded 24-7 with people the bride personally knew, and anyone who entered had their identity double-checked.

"Castle. Rick, it's time to wake up."

When he awoke, there were tubes in all sorts of awkward places, he couldn't speak for the one down his throat, and he couldn't move. His left thumb was firmly in Kate's grasp. She leaned over and cupped his jaw with her hand, the love in her eyes beaming out at him. It was tough to open his eyes, as if there were weights on the lids.

"Castle? You in there, Babe?" Her gaze was anxious, searching. His head ached a little, but not too badly.

He blinked at her as well as he could with his swollen eyes. Squeezed her thumb weakly. So he could move–just not very much. He tried hard to look at her. She was crying, so hopeful, so scared.

A small, pleasant woman, possibly Indian, leaned in. "Hello, Mr. Castle, I'm Dr. Parmar. We're going to remove your feeding tube now. Just relax. You may feel some discomfort."

"She's lying, Castle," Beckett warned him with a grin. "Go ahead and relax, but it's horrible. But you'll be fine. I'll stay here with you. Understand? If you do, squeeze twice."

He squeezed her hand again, twice, as she bade him.

The doctor was indeed lying, it was horrible in all kinds of awkward places, he was fine, and Kate stayed.

* * *

When he was finally able to speak, the first words out of his mouth were neither, "I love you," nor "Kate, I'm so glad you're here" nor even, "Can I have some pudding?"

Afraid to forget, he croaked out, "Girl. Old Haunt. Sewer passage."

The expression of joy fell off of Kate's face like a ballerina into a pit of alligators. "What are you talking about?"

"Water?"

The doctor was frozen, staring at him in concern. "Yes, of course." She handed a straw-cup to Castle. "Take tiny sips."

Rick drank a little and cleared his throat.

The doctor held up three fingers. "How many am holding up?"

"Three. Barack Obama. May 2014. Anything else?"

"Your full name?"

"Richard Edgar Alexander Rogers Castle." He slurred a little and his voice was raspy, but he was all there.

The doctor smiled at Kate's look of relief. "Good enough for me."

"What was I talking about when I woke up?"

"A girl. The Old Haunt?"

"Yeah. The basement. The accountant. Thought he was just surfing internet porn. He'd be down there for hours at a time."

Beckett was already speed-dialing Esposito. "What's his name?"

"Albert Grossmann. Two ns."

"Hey, Espo, he just woke up." She set the phone on speaker.

Esposito's response was simple: "Yo! Bro. How ya doin'?"

"Yo!" croaked Castle. His throat was raw from the tube. And that thing about anally stepping on a cactus? We won't go into it. He found a control button and adjusted the angle of his bed.

Beckett continued, "I want you to send a couple units to check out the Old Haunt. Remember the cellar with the secret passage? Yeah, behind the bookcase..." She went on to ask for an APB on an accountant named Albert Grossmann, and added, "You won't need a warrant to search the place. Armando should be on duty for the afternoon shift; just tell him the Castles sent you."

"Damn straight," said Castle, and raised his ice cup in a little toast.

* * *

Esposito actually went to Gates and reported the lead. "How would Mr. Castle know..." her face grew troubled.

Espo shrugged. "I guess it's a hunch. Maybe he saw something out of place and it didn't register till now."

Gates shrugged a little. "I suppose that could happen."

Ryan had followed him into the office. "What gives?"

Esposito explained the situation. Ryan said, "Tyson's tried to frame Castle before. Hiding a kidnapped girl in the Old Haunt..."

Ryan said, "That's not much of a stretch."

The detectives looked hopefully at Captain Gates. Esposito said, "You think the FBI's gonna take the lead seriously?"

Ryan added, "Oh, Scooby, it was all a crazy dream."

Gates surveyed their two faces, tilted identically with adorable pouts, and hid a smile. "Apparently you've been taking puppydog-eye lessons from that man." She scowled a little – mostly out of habit. "You have ten minutes' lead time..."

They bolted out of her office and were already collecting gear at their desks.

"... Bring Karpowski too; if there's really a kidnapped girl in there, she may been assaulted, and it will be best to have a female officer along." Karpowski was up and rummaging for her badge and gun.

"... and then I'm calling the FBI in. I want a patrol car as backup..."

Screw the elevator. Karpowski raced them down the stairs.


	14. Chapter 14

**TooSoon Chapter 14 – A Hair Out of Place**

_Everything will change  
Nothing stays the same  
Nobody here's perfect  
Oh, but everyone's to blame  
Oh, all that you rely on  
And all that you can save  
Will leave you in the morning  
And find you in the day_

_Oh, you're in my veins_  
_And I cannot get you out_  
_Oh, you're all I taste_  
_At night inside of my mouth_  
_Oh, you run away_  
_'Cause I am not what you found_  
_Oh, you're in my veins_  
_And I cannot get you out_

In My Veins – Andrew Belle

* * *

Twenty minutes after Kate called in the tip to Esposito, she was feeding Rick from a container of blueberry yogurt. He was starving, even more for her presence than for the food. She gave him the last spoonful, which he swallowed with an appreciative moan. She said, "I draw the line at wiping your mouth for you." Technically she hadn't needed to feed him, but it was fun, and it gave her something to do with her hands. He took the napkin she offered him.

"Any chance of a mirror?" he asked.

She hesitated and grimaced. "You look pretty good, all things considered."

"That bad."

She nodded. "Remember when you made yourself up as a zombie?"

His heart sank. "Worse than that?"

She nodded again. "Oh, yeah." She handed him a mirror compact out of her purse. It was about 3" diameter, and he had to scan it around to get the whole picture. His whole face was pretty much one big bruise, the purple fading to green at the edges. The doctors had fixed his nose, stitched up the cut over one eye, and the split on his lip had healed up on its own, although it would likely leave a little scar. But from the eyebrows up, his head was swathed in bandage, and in the gaps he could see underneath...

Martha, Alexis, and Jackson heard him scream from the hallway as they approached his room. They started running. The guard stopped them, then thrust the door open, weapon first. Kate jumped up. "It's okay! It's okay, he's just upset."

"They shaved- They shaved my head. They SHAVED my HEAD? _THEY SHAVED MY HEAD!"_

The guard relaxed, holstered his gun, and let the family in. Kate was trying to calm him down. "Rick, it's ok. It's just hair."

"It's not just hair. It's – It's _my_ hair," he squeaked.

Martha swept into the room. "Either that or they would have had to give you a brain transplant, Darling." Her breezy demeanor only added to his sense of her relief.

"I did not give them permission to shave. My. _Head_."

Alexis looked radiantly happy to see him. She kissed the small area of exposed jawline that wasn't either swollen, discolored, or bandaged. "Dad. Wait till you see your scar. It's... well, so gross it's cool?"

He looked a bit mollified. "Bragging rights?"

Alexis nodded. "I saw it when they were changing the bandages. Seven stitches across your temple, and a stent to channel fluid off your brain. That worked pretty well, so they took it out."

Rick was impressed.

Kate said, "You can go as Frankenstein for Halloween."

Castle pouted. "I've already done that before."

Jackson said, "You can go as the remake. Son of Frankenstein."

"I'll be Bride of Frankenstein," Kate grinned.

But that went right past Rick. He was staring at his father, questioning reality. "I... You're still here?"

Jackson nodded. "I'm not going anywhere."

Rick's face closed down. "I'll believe that when I see it."

Martha took Jackson's elbow. "Richard," she said. "We all need to talk."

Rick nodded, as well as he could with all the stuff all over his head. His expression fell to something dark, somber. "Kate, would you please call my lawyer's office?"

Kate frowned a little. "Why?"

"I should talk to him before I make a statement. Or talk to anyone about... stuff."

"Castle, you don't need to..."

He looked at Alexis. "Pumpkin, can you go get us some coffee? I have a headache you would not believe."

Alexis stood firm. "Dad. I'm almost nineteen. I can handle whatever you can dish out." She decided to leave _"I nearly brained a serial killer with a lawn gnome,"_ for later. "Come on, I voted in the last election."

Rick's eyes closed in pain. "Please."

Kate said gently, "Rick. I was so afraid I'd have to tell her the worst news she could possibly ever hear. Anything you can say has to be better. And she's right, Babe." Kate resorted to teasing a little. "She's more adult than you'll ever be."

Rick's smile ghosted, then crumpled in distress. The room was silent while he mastered himself, the clock ticking softly, a long, agonizing moment. "Mother, would you sit down, please?"

Jackson pulled up a chair and bade Martha sit. She leaned close to him on the bed rail. "It's going to be all right," she said softly.

Finally Kate said, "Rick. It's okay. 3XK's dead."

"That's not it. I killed him. I killed my own brother, all right?" He watched Martha's expression, praying for forgiveness, tears streaming down his face. He frowned at her. "Why don't you look surprised?"

"Oh, Richard." She took his hand and swallowed back tears. "I know. They ran the DNA."

Rick was glaring at his mother. "You _knew_ about him?"

"It was a match for both you and your mother," said Jackson.

"And yours as well?" said Kate.

Jackson nodded. "I got a DNA sample from Richard's wine glass a few years ago at a party."

Rick glared at him. "What did you do that for?"

"Just for confirmation. I'd had an eye on you all since you were a boy, of course, but it was hard to get discreet testing done..." he shrugged. "Just wanted to be sure."

Martha said tartly, "That was efficient of you." In truth, she hadn't been entirely certain.

Jackson continued. "If you're twins, Michael McGowran was my son as well," he said heavily.

Rick's tears ran freely, his body trying to curl in on itself. "Michael. I never knew his real name. I let him burn to death."

Kate said, "Castle, Michael was 3XK. He would have killed you."

"That doesn't matter."

Alexis's face was white. "You _knew_ 3XK was your brother?"

"I guessed. It just kind of hit me, sometime between the time his car ran me off the road and the moment my airbag blew." He could feel Martha's hands trembling. He gritted, "Mother, _why didn't you tell me about him?"_

"I didn't know."

"Oh, come on, Mother, you may be the Queen of Self-Deception but..."

"Richard!" She set aside her own hurt at the insult. "I thought he was stillborn. I was drugged when I gave birth, I never even saw him." Now it was her turn to cry. "It was just you and me. You were just a little boy. I thought about it, but it just got harder. What was I going to do? Tell you every sordid detail when..."

"It wasn't sordid. It was the truth, Mother."

"_You_ were my truth. Your youth and innocence went by too fast as it was. You had no father. Why burden you with your brother's death? We barely made it through some days on our own, and when we encountered Michael and his adoptive mother in preschool..."

Rick interrupted softly. "That was him? The psycho kid with the shoelace?"

Kate said, "They're still trying to find the records through the Head Start archives. They're sealed, so we had to get a subpoena."

Martha continued. Jackson took her other hand, and Alexis was caressing her stooped shoulder. "I tried so hard to be a good mother to you, I just..." she shrugged. "I made so many mistakes. So many."

Rick's voice was almost inaudible. "Yeah, you did." He paused a long time. "I could have saved him."

Kate's hand was on Rick's good knee. She shook him gently. "When?"

"Years ago. If I'd know, I would have reached out to him, I'd..."

"You'd have let him kill you? Followed him into killing instead of just writing about it?" Kate's voice was strong. "Castle, he was _sick_. From the very start. And he wanted to take you down with him. You can't save a person who's determined to destroy himself."

Castle's head rose, and under the puffy eyelids his eyes were bright blue. "You did."

"Oh, Babe, no. No. If anything, we saved each other. You _do_ have a self-destructive streak, but you also have such a big heart. You're a good man, a good father, a wonderful friend. Castle, I love you. But, if I hadn't come along, something else would have shaken you out of that downward spiral. You _chose_ me as your muse, but your instinct has always been to create, not to destroy. _You saved yourself._ You're stronger than you know."

"How do I know I'm not as sick as he was?"

Jackson said quietly, "Because you're hurting, son."

"Being sorry doesn't change the fact I killed him," said Rick. Silently, he thought, _"And I'm not sure exactly how sorry I am." _

Kate said, "The crash scene was analyzed very carefully. He was killed in an explosion that _he_ caused. There were signs you fought, is that true?"

Rick nodded sadly. "Yeah."

"Do you really think you had time to save both yourself and him?"

"There was the tunnel. Maybe I could have dragged him in..."

"You knew about the tunnel where they found you?" Jackson had heard about it, but Kate hadn't thought to mention the map, and somehow it hadn't really come up.

"I explored it while I was researching a book, years before they sealed it up."

Kate nodded. _"Deep in Desire." _

"Yeah!" He lit up, just a little. "You finally read it?"

"No, I just looked at the pictures, Tootsie." They shared a long look, and he decided to explore the subject of romance novels in more depth with her later. She grinned, trapping the tip of her tongue between her teeth. She was trying to help him feel better, and even though he still felt like a piece of shit, it was hard to resist her efforts. Just the fact that she tried to make him feel good... damn, it just made his heart sing.

Alexis slapped Kate's arm gently. "Audiobook."

Rick nodded. "So yeah. I just knew. I knew he was coming for us, I just didn't know when. I had so many contingency plans..." he sighed. "I just wanted to keep us all safe, but I didn't want to seem paranoid." He lay back and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted.

Martha said, "Did you have a chance to talk with him at all?"

Rick said flatly, "He didn't say anything you'd want to hear."

Martha stroked his hand. "When you were small, Richard," her voice shook. "Before you were in preschool, you used to pretend that Mister Rogers was your dad."

On hearing that, Jackson had to turn his face away a little in shame. This caught Alexis' eye, and she gave him a gentle smile, which her grandfather hesitantly returned.

Castle's lips twitched in an embarrassed smile. "You really don't have to make that public knowledge, mother."

"It was a very logical conclusion, considering. You'd watch him every day. You remember Charlene, the nanny with the orange lipstick?"

"Vividly."

"She told me you'd sit down with your snack, in front of Mister Rogers, and insist that your imaginary brother get a snack, too. Of course you ate it for him, but she just split yours in half."

"Ants-on-a-log and chocolate milk. Two plates, two cups."

"Every weekday at 2 pm, for two years. I didn't know what to make of it. I thought... I thought you'd made up an imaginary friend."

"Just one of many," Rick murmured.

"After you started preschool, you never mentioned your imaginary friend again, even when I took you out of the class."

Rick nodded. "I'm sure it was a developmental thing."

"Your imaginary friend's name was Mike."

Kate said, "Mike's a very common name."

Rick leaned his head back on the pillow and sighed, closing his eyes again. "Yeah. Common name."

Kate said gently, "Want some time by yourself, Castle?"

He nodded. Kate kissed his jaw and whispered, "We'll get through this." He could barely hear out of his left ear anymore; it was still ringing, but he felt her voice in his veins. She left a box of tissues by his left hand. He wound up needing them.

* * *

Ryan's unmarked car pulled up at the Old Haunt, followed by an NYPD patrol car. No sirens, no lights. The uniforms waited outside on the corner. Ryan, Karpowski, and Esposito strolled casually up to the bar. "Hey, Armando."

He was slicing up limes. "Hey, guys. You heard any news about Rick?"

Ryan shook his head. "Far as I know, he's still in a coma."

Armando shook his head. "Man. That just sucks. Poor Kate."

Castle always introduced her as Kate at the bar. Sometimes when it got busy and they were hanging out, she'd wait tables a little. Sass the customers. Everyone loved her.

He put the lime slices in a bowl and started on a lemon. "What can I get you?"

"Nothing, thanks," said Karpowski.

"You seen Grossmann lately?"

"What, the accountant? Not today."

"When's the last time he was in?"

"He's been in every afternoon, sometime between two and four. Just sits down there, I guess. He's quiet. Keeps to himself."

"Did he ever bring anyone down there with him?"

"Not that I saw." Armando's brown eyes widened. "What, you mean like a date?"

"Maybe. Seen any of these girls around?" Armando looked over photos of the three kidnapped girls.

"Nope." He frowned. "Weren't they kidnapped recently? New Jersey?"

"Long Island."

Armando shook his head. "Man, I hope they find 'em."

Esposito pulled out a composite drawing of Jerry Tyson. "Ever seen this man?"

"Oh, sure, except the nose is kinda wrong. Too short. And the eyebrows are too, I dunno, just too much."

"But it's close."

"Yeah. He was doin' some repairs down in the basement, said the ol' passage had a leak. Showed me the work order."

"When was that?"

"Month ago?"

"Who made the work order out?"

"Grossmann did."

The three cops exchanged a glance. Armando said, "What."

Karpowski said, "Did Castle know about the work order?"

"Well, why wouldn't he if Grossmann was payin' the bills?" He looked a little anxious. "Oh, man, am I gonna lose my job over this?"

Ryan grinned. "Hell no. Can you let us down in the basement?"

"Sure." Armando produced the trapdoor key, and the three cops went down the stairs. Karpowski said, "So where's the access thingy?"

Ryan said, "Bookcase." They pulled it aside. A few months after he purchased the Old Haunt, Castle had thrown a party, proudly showing his friends around the speakeasy's nooks and hidey-holes. He'd found a lot of interesting stuff behind the old paneling. Mostly crumpled-up newspaper insulation, but also a lady's blue velvet garter with a jeweled buckle.

Karpowski said, "This looks the same. Anyplace someone could be locked up down here?"

They all switched on their flashlights. Amongst the cells of the old sewer, a brick wall had been repaired with fresh mortar. The door was new, its frame reinforced with new ashlar-cut stone, also freshly mortared, where brick had once crumbled a little. There was a lock on it. No kicking this monster in. Esposito tapped loudly. "Anyone in there?"

They heard a girl's voice on the other side of the door. "Hello? Is someone out there?"

Karpowski stepped up. "NYPD. Are you locked in?"

"Yes! Oh my God, help me!"

"What's your name, Ma'am?"

"Kayla Twimbly!"

* * *

Kate ran down the hospital corridor and skidded to a stop before the guard. "Hey, Erick!" she beamed, and slammed into the room. Rick had been sitting there and had a pile of blood-streaked kleenexes wadded up and scattered around on his lap. She brushed them aside and sat on the bed next to him, trying mightily not to squash his last remaining usable limb.

"What is it?" He was barely past a crying jag, his eyes sore, trying to hide the evidence of his meltdown. He gave up and brushed all the wadded tissues onto the floor.

"It's Ryan. I'll put him on speaker."

She had strawberry milk shake all over her blouse, and she was clutching her cell phone in her shaking hand.

They heard Ryan's voice. "Hey, Castle. I hear you're up and around?"

"Well, at least I'm around," he said. Both Ryan and Kate sounded so excited he felt himself climbing out of the dark despite himself. "What happened?"

"Kayla's safe. Kayla Twimbly, the girl from Montauk?"

"Where did they find her?"

"You mean where did _we_ find her. Your accountant, Grossman had a nice little love nest built in the Old Haunt basement. Right where you thought."

"No shit. Really?" A sort of sob escaped Rick, but this was joy. "She's ok?"

"Hard to say. She's... She's been through a lot. But she's a fighter, mad as hell. We're expecting him in a few minutes, and she wants us to help him bring her down. In fact, she practically begged."

Kate grinned. "You have enough backup?"

"Oh, yeah. We're working with the FBI. Jordan Shaw's been assigned to the case."

"Wow."

"Gates asked for her."

Castle added, "Double wow. Where are you?"

"At the bar. We called Brian in since he's the manager, he's on board with us. Grossmann should be here about 25 minutes. We're just gonna have some nice cold soda pops and watch Temptation Lane till he shows up for work."

"You know him, right?"

"Sure. He looks sort of like Beaker from the Muppets."

"That's Grossmann." Castle was now beaming with joy. "I can't believe this."

"This is our first real break in the kidnappings, Castle." Ryan's voice was serious. "So you'd better believe it."

"Well, thanks for... I dunno. Taking me seriously?"

"Ha. Never. Now go kiss your wife."

Castle beamed over at Kate. "You don't need to remind me. But do me a favor, grab the backup from the books. It's under the desk."

Kate said, "Keep us posted. Bye." She hung up and gazed at Rick. "I have mixed feelings," she said.

He nodded. "You want to know how I knew?"

"Yeah. The implications scare me a little."

"Well, I didn't know, it was just a guess. I just... I had this funny dream while I was out, and it reminded me about something on the books at the Haunt. I was caught up in the wedding so I decided to put off asking Grossmann about it until the honeymoon. And he did show me the new storeroom he was having built, talking about putting in a fridge unit and kitchen area so we could serve our own food. Give the employees a better break room. All they really have is a closet..."

"It gets damp during snowy weather." Every time she hung her coat up there, it came out smelling like mildew.

"Yeah. So I signed off on it, but I never really looked at what I was signing, and there might have been things I didn't approve."

"So you think 3XK was using your business to frame you?"

"Yeah."

She groaned. "Oh, that bastard."

Castle sighed. "Yeah, him and me both."

"No, no, Rick, I didn't mean it that way!"

He took her hand as well as he could. "It's ok. I'm just... you know, underneath the coldness, the planning... what makes a person do this? What happened to him?"

Kate shook her head. "Maybe you shouldn't dig too deeply. Maybe you don't want to know."

He hesitated. "Didn't I say something like that about your mom's death?"

She bit her lip. "But you also said I wouldn't have to do it alone."

"So? What happens to the other two girls? They were his leverage."

"We found my mom's killer, together. And we put him away, together. So no matter what happens... Castle?"

A smile grew between them, bittersweet. She said, "I've got your back."

* * *

I am so blown away by the positive reviews I've received on this story. It's gone on MUCH longer than I expected and I appreciate your patience.

Does anyone want a makeout session? I'm debating on how M this should get.


	15. Chapter 15

I'm not sure whether this really moves the plot forward

but the next chapters are so heavy, I needed some...

**Creamy, Delicious Fluff**

* * *

**TooSoon Chapter 15a – You Can Leave Your Hat On**

**Rated R for Racy**

_Baby, take off your coat...real slow  
Baby, take off your shoes...here, I'll take your shoes  
Baby, take off your dress  
Yes, yes, yes  
You can leave your hat on  
You can leave your hat on  
You can leave your hat on_

Go on over there and turn on the light...no, all the lights  
Now come back here and stand on this chair...that's right  
Raise your arms up in to the air...shake 'em  
You give me a reason to live  
You give me a reason to live  
You give me a reason to live

_**You can Leave Your Hat On – Randy Newman**_

_(p.s. This is one of the sexiest songs ever_

_and if you haven't heard it...go for the Joe Cocker version_

_ watch?v=hfgwrdYUQ2A )_

After eight days, five surgeries, four changes in meds, one crime-solving triumph (the rescue of Kayla Twimbly) seven sponge baths, five enlightening but painful father-son talks and mother-son arguments, not nearly enough time alone with Kate, and a world of frustration, Richard Castle was in the second worst possible situation (barring being drugged by a serial killer in a cave full of bat shit): he was bored out of his mind.

It was even worse than the time he dislocated his knee skiing, but now Kate seemed too upset and distracted to have any fun surprises up her sleeve. And he really couldn't expect the world to revolve around him. Hospital visits are often forced and difficult... nobody really wants to be there, now do they? His loving, wonderful family and his few close friends came and went, but the world didn't even know he'd been found; law enforcement wanted to keep his whereabouts and status under wraps so that 3XK's team would be less likely to put him or his family in jeopardy again. So he couldn't exactly go on Tweeter or Myface.

He couldn't read comfortably because his eyes were still sore; listening to stories and books was still a little frustrating because his ears still rang; his hands were a mess so he couldn't play games on his own, let alone do anything else with them like type or write or, well, whatever. The doctors weren't ready to let him go for a few more days; they wanted to make sure that everything was okay since they'd taken the stent out of his skull. He wondered if the room was big enough for a treadmill. Then he remembered the state of his ankle. They let him limp around a bit, but he had to stay out of sight, so there was nowhere to go. The physical therapist had given him massages and stretches, and done some kind of micro-ultrasound-massage thingy wherever he had scarring, to prevent adhesions. But he really couldn't move around much on his own because his hands were useless with crutches. _Fuck._

He made up stories in his head to pass the time. He obsessed about Michael – who he was, what he'd done, how things might have gone differently. His mind went around in circles, wondering where and how he might have prevented the inevitable. And he couldn't get the fight, the fire, the explosion, out of his mind. The look on Michael's face. How for a moment, when his tuxedo caught fire but before the pain really sank in, he looked at Rick and smiled. Really smiled, before he started screaming.

* * *

After his burly man-nurse, Hogan, gave him a depressingly prosaic sponge bath, Rick fell asleep half-watching Rockford Files reruns. He dreamed about Kate. He woke up a bit after 6 pm, horny as hell, to a Venezuelan Ass Blaster infomercial, the girls in leotards gyrating and pumping their nonexistent flab away. Not a lot he could do about that, one hand broken and the other raw. A soft knock came at the door. He tucked his knees up, the light cotton blanket concealing his awkward state. "Yes?" _(Please don't let it be anyone but Kate.)_

His lovely fiancee peeked in. "Hey, you're awake," she smiled. She stepped into the room carrying a large tote bag. Despite the warm day, she was buttoned up in a trench coat. "I hear you had a bath."

He nodded miserably. "Such as it was. God, I want to go home."

"I want you there," she said. "But, since you can't be there... can I want you here?"

"Not half as much as I want you."

She walked over to him and kissed him, long and lingering, careful not to bump his healing nose. As passion renewed in him, he almost forgot that he looked like a potato from the bottom of the barrel, and she gave no indication she noticed. He groaned into her mouth, then broke away, gasping. "It's no good, Kate, I can barely move."

"Maybe you don't have to." She turned back to the door, locked it, and for good measure, braced the steel-and-upholstered side chair under the door knob.

She had his interest. "Kaaaaate?"

She turned off the nattering TV and the fluorescent, ugly overhead light and the room became a much nicer place. He had a private balcony in this very expensive private hospital room, with a sliding glass door and layered shades that filtered the late-afternoon light. Or early evening. It was mid-June, and the sun stayed out nearly till 8.

She put some red lipstick on, slowly and carefully. Normally when she did that it was destined to come right off again. She narrowed her eyes a little. It made her look fierce, like a woman in a Robert Palmer video from the 80s. "You need a special nurse."

"A physical therapist?"

She shook her head.

"A nurse practitioner excelling in humiliating procedures?"

"Hell no. That was the afternoon nurse who gave you a sponge bath and changed your bandages."

"Oh. Yeah. The Incredible Bulk."

"You just need some tender, _specialized_, care." She kicked off her shoes and reached into the bag, pulling out some white, platform, patent leather boots. She put them on and zipped them up. They clung to her calves, nearly up to her sculpted-by-angels little knees. Rick found himself wondering exactly what was under her trench coat. He cleared his throat.

"Are we talking Naughty Nurse here?" he croaked.

She reached for his ice-water cup and held the straw to his lips. "Suck on this, Lover."

He sucked obediently, trying to see down the collar of her trench coat. He saw a trace of white lace and crowed, "Are you the elusive and possibly mythical Slutty Night Nurse Nancy?"

She set down the drink with a knowing smirk.

Rick grinned, although it made his face hurt. "I thought this day would never come." He let his legs stretch out again, but the light blanket over his lap wouldn't quite lie flat.

She untied the knotted belt of her trench then unbuttoned the coat slowly. "This takes so long," she mock-pouted. "It's double-brrrrreasted." He loved it when she rolled her Rs.

"Wish I could help." The first item of clothing he'd ever helped remove from her had been a coat, and he felt a little sad to be left out.

"No, no. You're the patient today." She turned her back to him, peeked over his shoulder at his lap. "I see we have our thermometer all warmed up," she smirked. The coat slid slowly off her shoulders.

"Oh, I think if you take a reading you'll find it's hot," he said.

"Don't touch it, you might bust the bulb... send all those little balls of Mercury scattering all over the room."

He grinned. "Those balls of Mercury can get away from you."

She tossed the coat onto the second side chair. He breathed, "Oh, my God. _The_ Night Nurse Nancy costume." They both loved costumed play and there were quite a lot of nurse costumes out there, some more attractive than others. He'd wish-listed this one, but she'd always refused to dress up as a nurse before. Now he was glad she'd waited.

The entire outfit was crisp white, setting off her golden skin. Her short-sleeved, button-down blouse was made of sheer lace, and the petticoat skirt flared out, making her waist look even tinier than usual. Underneath, he could see more lace: a lightly boned corset framing satin bra cups. Tiny lace-and-satin panties. Lace-topped stockings embracing the tops of her luscious thighs.

Then she turned her back to him, bent forward at the hip, and reached into her bag. Rick was treated to a full view of her bottom in those very brief briefs, her legs slightly spread, the skirt flipped up a little and floating atop her bum like a fog bank. The barest hint of fabric between him and his favorite place in the known universe. ANY universe. She rummaged in the bag and peeked up at him from between her ankles. She grinned wickedly. "I know it's in here somewhere." She straightened up, flipped her gold-touched waves back like Rita Hayworth in Gilda, and pinned a tiny white nurse's hat with a red cross into her hair.

Rick was speechless with lust, his mouth hanging open.

Kate said, "'When the patient is ready, the nurse comes.'"

"How does the patient call the nurse?"

"In a little while, I'll demonstrate proper use of my call button," she purred. She adjusted the controls on his bed so that it was as low as possible, her long legs and tall shoes now showing her panties above the mattress, the skirt hovering like a little cloud. Castle was still reclined, his upper body semi-upright.

She said perkily, "Is there anything Nurse Nancy can do to make Us more comfortable, Mr. Castle?"

"I have multiple injuries and am wearing a charming frock with bows down the back. I could be better."

"I can make you feel better," she said. She leaned over him, her hands on either sides of his shoulders, hands buried in his pillow. "But We have to follow the rules."

"We?"

"I speak Nurse. It's a local dialect. 'We' means 'you'."

Her chest was inches from his face. He knew how she loved alternating friction and smoothness of lace and satin over her skin.

"May I touch?"

"Only with the first two fingers of your left hand. No reaching, no bending, no pulling. No compromising any of Our injuries, Castle. Just touch."

He brushed a finger across her bra, feeling the swell of her response underneath the soft fabric. The scab along his arm and deltoid pulled a little, but it wasn't too bad. He focused on his fingertips and their touching, not the pain. All he wanted to feel was her. "Like this?"

She brushed his lips with hers, stifling a gasp. "Just like that."

She backed away a little, looking at him seriously, speaking in her most authoritative Beckett-voice. "I asked your doctor for permission. The doctor says your threshold of pain will be lowered, so you _cannot_ move."

He blushed. "Really?"

"He agrees it will be good for you, and if you're going to have a full-on stroke, what better place than a hospital?"

He felt a twinge of panic._"Now wait a minute..."_

She went back into character, shimmying. "Night Nurse Nancy will take care of everything."

"Okay. But..." He wasn't whining, but his face was full of longing. "I want to move. I want to touch you. I want to please you."

Her hazel eyes fixed sternly on his. Then she licked her lower lip. "Remember what you did to me with those silk scarves?"

"You couldn't move much." He recalled it vividly: her controlled writhing under his ministrations. The soft silk, not-too-tight. Touching her under and through the fabric. Her exultant release. And when he untied her, she wrapped herself around him like a silk scarf, deceptively strong, rippling...

She nibbled his ear and he forgot the ringing, homing in on the sound of her voice. "I loved it," she purred. "So now I'm getting revenge."

"Revenge for something you liked?"

"This kind of revenge is best served hot." She ticked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

She pulled the blanket down past his feet.

She spoke to - not Little Castle, but Proportionally Perfect Castle.

"Well, hello stranger! How are we doing there?"

Rick twitched and squeaked, "We're sooo lonellllyyyyy!"

His sprained ankle was lightly splinted, but otherwise he wore nothing below the waist. From her magical bag of tricks, (No, her shoulder bag! You with your dirty mind!) she produced a soft, fluffy washcloth from home. "I'll just warm this up," she smiled. He watched her strut to the private bathroom, her skirt swaying around her hips. "Nurse Nancy will just get this nice and warm and... wet." She reappeared a moment later, came to him and unfolded the warm washcloth. "I'll just prep you a little bit, Mr. Castle. Make sure you're ready for your procedure." The velvety terrycloth felt like a giant, friendly tongue.

"Over two weeks," he gasped. "I am so ready."

She nodded. "Saving ourselves up for three days before the wedding didn't seem like such a big deal, did it?"

"If I'd known what we were in for, I would've screwed your brains out before I went back to the city."

"Well, when everything comes together... so will we." She grinned. She checked her handiwork. "I think we can conclude all the hospital's been washed off." She ran her tongue from the base to the length of him, her breasts brushing against his inner thigh. He almost lost it right there, feeling poised on a hair-trigger. He retreated into humor.

"Ah! Hope I don't taste like sponge bath soap."

"You taste like you." Her face was soft, glowing in the warm afternoon light. "I've been craving you."

Craving. It crossed his mind again. Was she pregnant? Why did he even think that? He forgot all about it a moment later, blanking out at the sensation her lips and tongue drew from him, slow and warm and wet. He strained to bury himself in that feeling, forget everything but that enveloping bliss.

"You can't move. You have to be still, as much as possible."

He nodded. "I'll be good."

She was back in character again. "Night Nurse Nancy is sure you'll follow Doctor's orders," and she cupped, brushed, twisted gently, pulled. He forgot, everything tensed around his center then he thrust, and felt his hip twinge. He stopped. "Ow."

She made a gentle warning push on his uninjured left hip.

"Uh-uh," she said. "Be patient. Let Naughty Night Nurse Nancy do her job." She worked hand and mouth together, quickly setting a steady rhythm. She figured that if she prolonged it too much, he'd build up to the point of forgetting, thrashing around, and she didn't want that. "You don't want to hurt yourself." She wanted him home. She wanted him inside her, desperately, but she knew it was the wrong time, the wrong place, that they were both too strong and too inclined to get caught up in the moment.

He begged "Stop, Kate, please, I want to see you, I want to see..."

She grinned wickedly, backed down off the bed. "Do we want to be an informed patient?"

"I'll sign any form you want, just please..." His left hand fisted, his right foot curled at the toes, he shifted his hips a little. There was nothing else he could do. "I'm going crazy."

She considered a moment, walked around the bed. Unbuttoned her blouse slowly then tossed it over to the trench coat pile.

"Corset," she said. "Hardly conducive to unfettered nurse's ministrations."

It laced up the front, the ribbon criss-crossed between grommets. Beautiful, soft white ribbon, harmless, delicate, and completely in their mutual control. She placed the ribbon's end between his teeth, and he bit down. She pulled back, and the bow untied in a silent surrender to his tug. "I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Castle," she said. "Now, are we starting to feel a little better?"

"Oh, yes." He glanced down at his lap. "We are doing so much better now." _We are, in fact, doing a very happy little dance, all on our own._

He said, "Nurse, can you call me just Castle?"

Her look, her kiss, her voice, suddenly shifted from playful to deep tenderness. "Castle."

She unlaced the corset slowly from the top, and its parting put the pearly gates of Heaven to shame. Her breasts, now bare, were pink-gold in the sunset light through the vertical blinds. She leaned over him, guided a nipple to his mouth, and he sucked for all he was worth. She moaned, pulled away, let him have the other side too.

"Not too hard," she murmured. "I have PMS, they're a little sore."

He looked up at her adoringly. "Sorry." cupped her right tit as well as he could in his left fingers. Kissed it. Sucked more softly, swirled with his tongue. "Better?"

"Mmmm." She nodded, feeling the mysterious connection between breasts and groin, her inner muscles clenching in anticipation. "Oh, yes." She let him play with her chest for a while, until she was in danger of forgetting everything and putting Nurse Nancy out of a job. "Keep the skirt or lose it?"

"Keep," he gasped, running his tongue along her collar bone and into the hollow of her throat, touching everything he could reach without pain. She presented herself like a map to be read. A little pirate voice in his head growled: _"Here be treasure."_

"Panties?"

"Off," he grunted.

She pushed back off the bed, stood upright on one foot and easily removed the panties without stumbling (thank you, Tree Pose). "Where do you want me?"

"I want to press the call button," he whispered.

She handed him the wired call button with a grin, and he waved it away.

"Not that one."

"Oh. You don't want just any old nurse?" she teased.

"I just want you," he whispered. Her clean, womanly scent wafted over him, and if possible he grew even harder than he'd already been. They had done this before, many times, but never quite like this: This red-gold light; this narrow bed; this silly, crazy-beautiful seafoam-light skirt trembling and frothing at her every quiver. "I'm calling _you_, Kate. Calling your name."

Something in his voice knocked away all the play-acting. "Yes. Call me," she gasped. "Call me Kate."

She stood by him, almost where he could reach, and moved her knees apart. The skirt was so short, it didn't even hide her sex.

"Come to me, Kate."

He crooked his finger, beckoning to her, and come she did, to the place where he knew her better than anyone. She gripped the handrail of the bed, white-knuckled, as she rode his hand like a wild horse in a thunderstorm. She groaned, "I want to kiss it better, Castle. I want to make it better."

He could feel everything about her, centered at the tip of his finger. "Please. Come heal me, Kate."

"Oh, God, Rick!" She collapsed onto him, spasming, kissed his lips, his chin, the tip of his nose SO tenderly, the cut over his eye, the bandage over his temple, softly down his scraped left arm and his broken wrist, on his hip, his knee, his sprained ankle. She moved her way down his body, touching everything, caressing everything. She connected the damaged with the healthy, heart and mind and muscle and bone. He felt sparks coming out of her fingers, reminding every available nerve of the real reason they existed: pleasure, not pain. And then she performed an act of healing so hot, so deep, so earth-shatteringly _profound_ that he had to cry out in ecstasy.

The guard knocked.

"Uh, are you folks all right in there?"

Rick's body went tight as a drum, frustrated and fascinated since usually he was able to control the drumsticks. He swore, but could not stop. Climax welled up from deep within him, pent up far too long, pounding through layers of grief and pain and murky fear, pushing toward something sweet, pure, clean. _  
_

He was enthralled with it, lost in it, taken by it, still and hard as stone, and then he let go. _"You give me reason to live, you give me reason to live..." _

The guard knocked again.

Kate swallowed and called out with a grin, "We're good. Erick. We're great. Thanks."

She looked at Rick and spoke softly. He was still drifting between spasms of pleasure. "_Are_ we good, Castle?"

He nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, tears streaming. She held him, encasing and comforting him, until the swell of his desire subsided. He finally murmured, "We are so much better now. SO much better."

Kate took a sip of ice water, sealed her lips gently against his, and let it flow into his mouth. He swallowed it with a rapt smile and whispered, "I know what love is." His eyes closed.

* * *

She just really couldn't fit on the bed with him, not without hurting him. But after she dressed in a soft T and yoga pants, she pillowed her head on the most perfect belly in the world: still muscular and strong despite the long hospitalization, but with just enough cush to make it welcoming. She gazed at his poor, rearranged face. Her long, gold-kissed waves sprawled silky on his hips.

Her eyes drifted closed, and sometime after twilight, the room deep in violet shadow, his voice brought her back: "That was... beyond bliss." Eyes closed, he reached for her, his free fingers smelling like her when he caressed her cheek.

She smiled a little sadly. "I wanted... I wanted our wedding night to be romantic, but..." she shrugged. "We have to wait for that. Meanwhile, I thought you could use a little fun."

"There's nothing as romantic as having a wife who really gets me." He smiled. "Don't worry. We'll have our wedding night. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere private and safe."

A shadow crossed his face and he sighed. She reached up and stroked his jaw, then kissed his mouth softly. "Safe." She lay back down on his belly. She rubbed it gently. "Make a wish."

His stomach gurgled a little. "Real food."

"I know. I've had a few meals in the cafeteria, and the coffee's undrinkable. Doctor said it's ok if I order you takeout tonight."

"When's the last time you had a cup of coffee?" he asked.

"The morning you were admitted at the ER."

"That's days ago!"

"I know! Must've put me off. My stomach was already in knots, and it smelled so bad I couldn't even finish the cup. Guess I miss my own private barista."

She felt his body stiffen a moment, his abs contracting as he raised his head to look at her. "If I weren't so familiar with your sexual proclivities I'd swear my evil twin had swapped you out for a coffee-resistant version."

She sat up, startled. "I can't believe you're joking about that." She was oddly pleased, and it showed.

He said, "Honestly, I don't know what else to do. If I lose my sense of humor, do the serial killers win?" Rick shrugged, trying not to show the bitterness he felt.

"I think I understand. Gallows humor..." she searched for the words. "It makes us feel stronger than our grief."

He nodded. "I guess everyone copes in their own way."

"Yeah," she said. "I'm on this weird jag. I'm taking care of myself so I don't curl up in a ball under your bed and hide till you're better."

"So, no coffee then."

"No. The headaches were a nightmare, but Gates has put me on a mandatory leave of absence while you're in the hospital, so at least I can sleep whenever I want." She didn't mention how much. Eight or nine hours a night, - once eleven! Plus naps. And crazy dreams. And a certain... peculiar feeling in the morning. "And honestly, I've been so stressed out, worried about you, giving statements to the police and FBI. But everyone keeps fussing over me, like they're afraid I'm going to fall apart any moment. Dr. Burke tells me to keep it simple after a trauma - do things like eat and sleep and take baths and relax."

She didn't tell him about the crime scene cleanup at the beach house, or having Jackson Hunt sweep for bugs there, in the loft, and her apartment, in the 12th precinct homicide office, even the locker room. Hunt found things the security investigator had missed – no, deliberately concealed. The tech was arrested and charged, his storage space full of listening devices, a battery of video feeds, some of them unbearably personal. She didn't want to tell Castle that it wasn't safe to go home yet. She'd booked the family hotel rooms, where they were staying under assumed names._ Wait till he's stronger. _

"I'd like to thank those fussy people," he smiled. His eyes cracked open a little, fingers stroking her throat, cupping her breast. "You're so beautiful, although it might be sheer post-pity-fuck gratitude."

"That was NOT a pity-fuck," Becket was scandalized.

He took her hand and kissed it. "Believe me, I know, I just look like Quasimodo."

"You're not so bad, Castle."

He smiled brokenly and murmured, "You said that before." His eyes were sad. "When we were sitting in that hotel room in LA." But he knew this time she was trying to flatter him; he'd seen himself in the mirror that afternoon. The bruises on his face were fading to green and brown, eyes still puffy, nose still swollen, his hair only stubble.

Her eyes teared up. "I didn't know what to do," she said softly. "That night in LA – like so many nights – I wanted you so badly, I... I didn't know how to make it work. I was scared to destroy whatever we had."

"We've been through so much, before LA and since." His voice caught. "And now we're together, and I'm your husband, you're my wife. Nothing... _nothing_ will take that away. We're not done. It's going to get harder. But it turns out we did know how to make it work. It's working now."

He caressed the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

"Yes," she said. "It's working."

She sat up and kissed him again, softly, deeply, and if she forgot and squished down on his nose a little by accident, he didn't fuss about it. She could have hit him over the head with a baseball bat, and he would barely have complained, granted that she'd have put that nurse costume on again and kissed him better.

This time her stomach rumbled. "I wonder if room service delivers strawberry milkshakes?" she mused.

"No, but Esposito would, especially if we lent him the Ferrari again. Shall I ask him to stop by Remy's?"

"Ooh. A spinach mushroom burger with Swiss sounds really good right now."

"You're going to have to speed dial him." Castle gestured awkwardly.

Kate started to dial Esposito and then stopped, her eyes filling with tears again.

"What is it?"

"Here you are, flat on your back in the hospital, and all you can think about is getting me a milkshake."

A slow, sly smile crept across his face. "You mean another milkshake."

She scowled at him. "Don't say a word."

* * *

Esposito showed up to eat dinner with them an hour later, and Erick let him in. At first glance he was alarmed to see that Castle's bandages had little red smudges all over them, as if he'd been bleeding again. But Castle seemed perfectly fine and happy to see him, then Javi realized the red smudges were lipstick. Beckett stepped out of the bathroom a moment later with a smile, having apparently forgotten she was wearing a ridiculous little nurse's had perched on the back of her head. He didn't mention it, and Castle suppressed a smirk at his questioning glance.

Kate drank an entire strawberry milk shake and ate most of her burger with mushrooms and spinach, plus a third of the sweet potato fries. But, uncharacteristically, she picked out the grilled onions.


	16. Chapter 16

Halfway through writing this section, I have to say it's just killing me.I wanted to stop with Castle's rescue, but these people have left a trail of death going back how many years? How many victims do we not even know about? I hate serial killer stories. I never watch stuff like Dexter or Hannibal or even Bones. This is so hard. But I'm supposed to write about what scares me, and for now, I'm going to do that in the name of justice and closing the loop. And then I'm going to go bleach my brain out with som fluff. Because True Love.

* * *

**TooSoon Chapter 16: The Whole Truth**

_We crossed the line, who pushed who over?_  
_It doesn't matter to you, it matters to me._  
_We're cut adrift, but still floating._  
_I'm only hanging on to watch you go down, my love._

_I disappeared in you_  
_You disappeared from me._  
_I gave you everything you ever wanted_  
_It wasn't what you wanted._  
_The men who love you, you hate the most_  
_They pass right through you like a ghost._  
_They look for you, but your spirit is in the air._  
_Baby, you're nowhere._

_Oh, love, you say in love there are no rules._  
_Oh, love, sweet-heart, you're so cruel._

_So Cruel - U2_

* * *

Dr. Kelly Nieman was in a straight jacket, her dyed strawberry-blonde hair greasy, eyes wild, face scratched by her own fingernails. Admitted against her own protest to Krimby Psychiatric Hospital on Charybdis Island in Hudson Bay – a high-security facility with only one bridge as access – she glared at the one-way mirror and snarled. Her words were an ugly mixture of Gaelic and English, "Feicfidh mé sracadh do na scamhóga amach agus iad a rudaí síos do scornach, feckin tú 'idiots" which, roughly translated, was an offer to rearrange their internal organs in a very uncomfortable manner. The minor flesh wound in her shoulder dressed, and her surface injuries tended to, she couldn't tear at her own flesh now, or anyone else's. She was the writhing picture of impotent malice.

Victoria Gates watched her from the other side of the one-way mirror. Next to Gates stood the assigned lead psychiatrist, a petite, dark woman named Dr. Aruna Patel. Agent Jordan Shaw leaned an upraised elbow on the mirror frame. Gates mused, "Is she scamming us, or is she really off the deep end?"

Dr. Patel shook her head. "Her mind has taken a dive, not simply into the deep end, but off a 30th-story swimming pool balcony in Singapore, where it is currently splattered on the pavement."

Agent Shaw smirked. "I assume the Singapore Police arrested her mind for ejecting bodily fluids on the sidewalk."

Dr. Patel giggled. "I suppose she raised some Cain." Her smile faltered. "Raised cane? Get it?"

Shaw gave an appropriately horrified wince. "Good one." They cane peole for littering in Singapore. She'd seen it.

Gates, who was a gifted woman in other ways, seemed to lack the Pun Appreciation Gene, considering them an assault on the English language. Patel concluded the homicide captain didn't have much of a sense of humor (although nobody knew she took guilty pleasure in reruns of the Muppet Show).

Gates sighed. "Can Dr. Nieman even put a sentence together?"

Dr. Patel shook her head. "Mostly expletives and the occasional adverb."

"That woman has caused my people more trouble..." growled Gates.

Shaw nodded. "I know. But it's Monday, Captain. You need to get back to your own jurisdiction. We'll take it from here."

Nieman growled, "I want Castle, and I want him now!"

Gates tilted her head. "I don't want to involve Mr. Castle in questioning her. He's an untrained civilian. He could ruin the investigation."

Shaw said, "If it's life or death, I can coach him through it."

Dr. Patel said, "It will take a while to get Dr. Nieman's meds adjusted anyway. We have time to prepare him if she won't listen to reason."

Gates said, "Oh, give me three minutes with her, I'll give her a reason." But she knew the words were empty.

Shaw cocked an eyebrow at her, in a mix of sympathy and pragmatism. "Not your circus anymore, not your monkey."

Gates chuckled. "I know. Just... I'm sure we'll be closing a few cold cases at the precinct once the intel starts coming in. I trust you'll keep me in the loop?"

Shaw and Patel nodded. "Of course."

"Thank you." She left, worry clouding her brow. She wasn't really concerned about Castle ruining an interrogation. She was concerned that the answers might ruin him.

* * *

Gates left the hospital and went home rather than going straight back to work, just for once. Spent the afternoon with her family, enjoyed their favorite meal: mac 'n' cheese, broccoli, and grilled chicken. They had fragrant, sweet organic May strawberries with ice cream for dessert. She gave her children baths, and together with her wife, got them to bed. She read them a chapter from James and the Giant Peach - a rare treat. ("Mama, are you okay?" "Yes, Love, I'm fine.") She hugged each of them hard then gave goodnight kisses, bade them sweet dreams. Sat up with her wife awhile, just talking, cleaning up after dinner. They went to bed, made love, and cuddled. Her wife drifted off to dreamland with a smile on her careworn face. Then Victoria slipped out of bed, took a quick shower, dressed, and went outside. She paused at the unmarked car parked across the street. "Anything?"

The old man shook his head. "Nothing unusual."

She patted his door. "Thanks, Dad. Call if..."

He winked. "It's okay, Captain Gates. You just do what you gotta do, I'll keep an eye."

"When will Randy come to relieve you?"

"Midnight. Your brother got off shift at 6."

She looked around the tree-lined street of brownstones. It seemed safe. Most likely it was. But they'd gotten word from the three living suspects they'd taken in so far, that Nieman and 3XK had targeted the entire 12th precinct. They were all on notice: Castle's family, Beckett's, everyone who had touched the 3XK case. Even Perlmutter and his doll, having outlived their usefulness, would have been disposed of. And most of the team was still out there. But if – IF – there was no mole at the 12th, they didn't know that Castle was alive. They didn't know that 3XK was dead, and they didn't know that there was a possibility that Kelly Nieman might be persuaded to spill the beans on the whole operation.

So, IF there was no mole, they had a fighting chance. She said, "This won't go on forever, I promise."

Arthur B. Gates knew this. And he knew his daughter. He patted her hand gently with his wrinkled paw. "I know, Little Sir. You've already got them running scared."

She shook her head. "Not as scared as I am."

Mr. Gates, who'd been retired for seven years, had spent most of his life as a cop. "It just doesn't really fit the usual profile, does it? Most serial killers are loners."

"So we've been led to believe. But maybe things are different now, with the internet. Maybe they have ways of coordinating their activities through social media. We've seen these two use surrogate killers before. We can't be too careful, especially since they already targeted several of my people and their families."

He nodded. "Well, good luck getting past me." He was 73, but he still worked out daily and his eyesight was good. Captain Arthur Gates, Retired, was not the sort of cop who lived on coffee and donuts, even in his golden years.

* * *

It was 11:30 pm when she returned to work at the Twelfth Precinct. Ryan and Esposito were already there, poring over satellite pictures of the Long Island countryside. When Victoria Gates emerged from the elevator, they froze, defensive. Each sported bruise-like smudges of exhaustion under their eyes. They'd barely slept since the crash, although each had taken a few hours after Castle was admitted to surgery and safely under guard at the hospital.

They looked surprised at her genuine smile. "I don't normally drink espresso. Either of you want to show me how it's done?" She tilted her head toward the break room, her expression almost shy.

Ryan arose and headed to the espresso machine with her, smiling. "The machine's temperamental, but you'll get the hang of it fast..."

He showed her how to measure the grounds and tamp them, clamped the filter into the machine, twisted, and pushed the button.

She said, "How are your girls?"

Ryan shook his head. "Jenny and the baby checked out fine. They were scared, but not hurt. They're staying at her parents' till we bring all these bastards in."

"Has Jenny checked in with you in the last few hours?"

"Yeah. Cappuccino? Or latte?"

"Let's go with a latte - not so intense." She poured milk into the foaming pitcher. He took it from her and immersed the wand.

He continued, "Not too hot, you're working on the surface foam rather than overheating the milk."

She nodded, took on the job, feeling the whooshing milk warming the jug, vibrating like a small live thing in her hand.

Ryan added, "She says she can see the unmarked car from her bedroom window." He poured the espresso into Gates' mug then poured the milk over.

"Easy foam, I think," she said. "I'm new to this." She took a sip and shuddered. "God, that's a bit much for me..." She put some sugar in it and stirred it in, took another sip. "Not so bad now." She looked at the machine, the drink, and then Ryan.

He raised questioning eyebrows. She said, "Don't tell Mr. Castle about this," she said. "I'd hate to see the smirk on his face."

Esposito took a sip of his already-cold latte and switched to the next screen in the grid. He scanned it carefully, pointed at Screen 52, and murmured, "There." He got on the phone to Jordan Shaw. It was the point of origin for the rampaging Escalade, a parking garage in White Plains. Maybe the parking space would lead it to more intel about 3XK and Dr. Nieman.

* * *

Richard Castle went through surgery, near-death, and an induced short-term coma, and awoke to call for an investigation into his own basement. Not bad for a dilettante detective.

Meanwhile, at Krimby, it took a week even to elicit Dr. Kelly Nieman's real name. She was addicted to a complex cocktail of drugs both prescription and illegal, and withdrawal was an undignified nightmare: screaming, blackouts, convulsions, explosive diarrhea, crawling skin, hallucinations, vomiting, nausea, all despite a careful balancing of antipsychotics, nutrients, electrolytes, soothing music, and and other drugs to bring her back to something like functional. But for a long time after, she would have shakes, aches, and bakes: running occasional fevers, hurting all over, feeling nauseous. Her skin and hair were dull, the un-dyed roots revealing threads of gray. She had begun to show her age. The only mirror she was allowed was the unbreakable one-way at her first coherent interview in the hospital. She stared at it in horror and screamed, then sat mute and refused to say a word.

Several different agencies tried interviewing Nieman about the missing girls, and about the murders she and 3XK had committed, both separately and together. She refused to speak to an investigator or therapist. They even tried a priest who walked out sweating and murmured, "Well, I have to say this is the first time exorcism has ever crossed my mind as a viable option."

Kate Beckett asked Captain Gates and then begged Jordan Shaw to participate in Nieman's debriefing, but due to her own status as an intended victim in the case, she was denied.

Ten days after her arrest, Dr. Nieman was back in an interrogation room. No mirror this time. No longer in a straight jacket, her wrists and ankles were still chained down.

Jordan Shaw sat across the table from her. She read notes from an e-tablet. "Dr. Kelly Nieman. Also known as Eileen Kelly, Eileen O'Leary, See-ob-han..."

"That's pronounced Shevahn." She'd dropped the American accent altogether.

"Siobhan Devlin, Elisabeth Drury..."

Dr. Nieman scoffed. "None of this is news to me."

"...Born Rose Caitlin O'Shaunessy, November 3, 1966, 12 Ennis Square, Kilteirnan, Ireland."

No response.

"Daughter of Irene and John O'Shaunessy, both missing, presumed deceased."

Nieman arched an eyebrow. "That's quite a history you've found, after all the trouble I took to burn off my fingerprints. Give the lady a gold star."

"We find you actually did go through med school at Galway University. Master of Surgery. So that would make you Dr. O'Shaunessy."

"Clever you."

"But you experienced problems with university staff and other students."

"Their problems."

"Intern O'Shaunessy may be best suited as a coroner or assistant surgeon. Despite her excellent technical skills, and her understanding of chemistry, physiology, and procedures, she has great difficulty empathizing with the pain and suffering of both patients and their families and caregivers."

Nieman rolled her eyes. "Yeah, physician heal thyself, yeh dumb fuck."

"Dr. Kelly Nieman's plastic surgery certificates, all the accolades and glowing referrals, the web site - that was all fake."

Kelly smirked. She grew suddenly smooth and polished, purring in a soothing American accent. "Not all. I have a lot of satisfied customers. By the way, a blepharoplasty would do wonders for those bags round your eyes. There's some things a slice of cucumber just can't fix."

Shaw blinked at her, the sum total of her reaction to a tour-du-force performance of surface sanity. "You have nothing to lose by telling me the girls' location. I'm sure you'd rather not be forced to do so."

Nieman snickered. "Sodium thiopental only works if you ask the right question. I have a tolerance, you know that."

"We can test that tolerance."

"You can get a moose to recite the Magna Carta before you can dose me into giving you those girls. I want my storyteller. I want Richard Castle."

"He's still in the hospital. Recuperating."

"What day is it?"

"I don't have to tell you that, Dr. Nieman. That's on a need-to-know basis."

Kelly bared her teeth in something like a smile. "Really! Don't you have things you 'need to know'? Your pretty girls are running out of time."

"Tell me about the girls."

"You're looking for Tiffany Ross, Kayla Twimbly, and Elise Mowrey. No, Moffatt. They're each locked away, with enough food, water, and air to last until July 15 at latest, if they're careful. They _might_ be guarded. I can't vouch for the forbearance of the people looking after them."

Shaw was not about to deal out the Kayla Twimbly card: she actually wanted Kelly to overestimate her own power. "We'll find them. We have leads based on the information we found at your storage space."

"Which storage space?" Kelly smiled, relishing the twitch of doubt that Agent Shaw was unable to conceal. "Those girls may not even be on this continent, so good luck finding them on your own."

Shaw suppressed a sigh. She hated the fuss of dealing with Interpol, and there would be extradition demands... hell. "There's no way you could have pulled off those kidnappings alone, relocated the girls..."

"Who says I did it alone? Michael and I have friends. We've done favors. People _owe_ us." She was proud of this. They'd built a network. They had resources.

"So far we've brought in six of those... people." Shaw spat the word like a curse. "– or taken them down."

"Any idea of how many more you have to go?"

Shaw's sigh bolted out like a cat when you're bringing the groceries in, gone before she could catch it. She opened a new window on the tablet, poised her fingers to type. "Tell me what you have in mind. I'll see what I can do."

Now it was Kelly's turn to twitch. She gave Shaw her list of demands. "Cigarettes - Dromedary Menthol Slim 100s. A hairbrush. Cherry scented lip gloss."

Shaw raised her eyebrows. "That's it?"

"I want Castle to bring me a latte every day. Tall, nonfat, 2 pumps sugar-free vanilla syrup."

"And don't tell me, a bathtub full of red M&amp;Ms."

"DON'T get sarcastic with me, you feckin' eejit," Nieman spat.

"Fair enough. Anything else?"

"No wires. No recording. He can take notes."

"You're a physician. You realize Castle's hand is nearly crippled."

Nieman shrugged. "Pain is a teacher. Any lessons I give him, he'll never forget."

"I see. Anything else?"

"Yeah. I have a script for him to follow. You type fast, take it down. Pay attention because I'm only gonna say this once."

Shaw dutifully typed. It took about five minutes. They went over it, and to Shaw's surprise, Nieman was fairly patient making corrections. "Every time he leaves, his last word has to be 'Always'."

Shaw gave her a quizzical glance. "All right."

"And if you think I'm going to implicate any of my vast cadre of villainous friends and associates," she giggled, "you're feckin' stupid. But you might get the girls if you're lucky."

"That would be most appreciated," said Shaw.

"Now I'm telling you: Send me Richard Castle and, if he behaves himself as I specify, you'll find the girls. Alive or dead depends on how fast you move. Of course, in solitary, they may have gone barking mad already."

* * *

**Day 1:**  
Since Castle's hands, hip, and ankle were still a mess, he used an electric wheelchair. He was so worked up and nervous that he didn't even bother to play with it. This worried Kate. In the Krimby Psychiatric waiting room, she kissed his cheek and ran a gentle hand over his head. The doctors had only shaved off a patch, which made him look and feel even worse once the bandages came off. The day after he woke up, he paid his favorite barber $300 to sign a non-disclosure agreement, visit the hospital, and take off what was left of his hair. Plus give him a decent shave (damn hard to do on another person, impossible for him to do on himself). And a manicure on whatever fingernails he had left. Just a buff, clip, cuticles pushed back. So he didn't look so much like he'd literally crawled through shit just to stay alive.

Since then, he had grown six days' stubble, more or less. "Your hair's growing back," she smiled.

He nodded, dispirited.

"Alexis says your head feels like a pony's nose," she cajoled.

He was quiet. Scowling. Drumming his fingers on the armrests.

She'd already compared him positively to a pirate; she liked the beard. Although at this stage it was a little prickly, it had a nice shape. It would soften in a few days. She decided to attend his anxiety directly. "Babe, you don't have to do this."

"Of course I do."

"Yeah. I know." She put Nieman's latte in the cupholder, and added, "Of course you do. I'll be right here, waiting."

Castle reached up his good hand to cup Beckett's jaw. The fervor of his kiss felt too much like goodbye. "Thanks," he whispered, and they both felt as if he were his last breath before diving into a pool of crocodiles. He glanced at the clock again, and as it ticked straight up on 2 pm, the orderly called him in.

He went through two security check points, and then was let into a locked room, about 8 by 10, with only a heavy white table and two chairs. The walls were painted an unpleasant hue of fleshy pink. The ashtray on the table was harvest gold, a boomerang-shaped melamine blob stained with tobacco and old burns, bolted down on a little plinth so she couldn't throw it at anyone. Someone had likely found it in storage. Had it been in mint condition, it would have been worth $3.99 on Ebay. There were three cigarettes lined up neatly next to it. He knew that one of the walls was paper thin, and the room was bugged. Dr. Patel, an orderly, and perhaps others were on the other side, listening and recording the conversation. It made him feel a little safer, but his heart still thundered in the silent room. He was to give no indication that he knew they were there, but he did have a safe word, and it wasn't 'apples'.

A female orderly let Kelly in, sat her at the table, and chained her hands and feet down.

"I see I've won a round," she grinned. Castle set the latte on the table, loath to come near her. The door locked behind the orderly after she left.

Nieman took a sip that first day and made a face. "Gah. I can't believe she drinks it this sweet. It's like pudding."

Castle said, "It's what you asked for."

"So it is." She looked him up and down with a sort of hunger that made his skin crawl. "You can stand?"

He nodded.

"I'm going to pat you down for wires. Come here." Her smile turned his stomach.

He stood, limped to her, leaning his left hand's weight on the table. He let her pat him down. Let her brush a hand over his ass, his chest, run an exploring, hideously over-stimulating finger up the inside seam of his jeans. He didn't flinch. He kept it businesslike. As he would every day until it was over.

"No wire. We're good." She tilted her head, and as required, he leaned in to kiss her cheek, a bland peck, as between two French politicians. She was wearing cherry-scented lip balm. It made him want to slap her.

Her eyes flickered on his. Her eyes were green, but the wrong green, pale and ringed with blue. "Take a seat. Too bad about the hair."

"Yeah."

She picked up a cigarette and gestured with it. "Light me up."

Rick pulled out his first packet-of-three-matches-per-day.

"Sorry," she smirked. "I know you hate them, but I'll take what comfort I can." She loved knowing that he would leave "their" room every day coated in the scent of her breath. Dromedary Menthol 100s, as she'd specified. She was allowed three a day. His hand shook, oh, so slightly, as he lit the match with a hard flick of his cleanly trimmed thumbnail. He'd learned the trick as a kid, but found it harder left-handed.

She looked the chair over, but didn't find a wire on that either. "Judging by the way your bruises have faded, I'd say it's been twelve days since the crash."

"More or less." It was actually thirteen. And two of the girls were still missing.

She smirked. "I may be a bad woman, but I'm a good doctor. I can read your body like a clock. And it's a feckin' disgrace, what they've done to your nose. I could fix it. Make it perfect."

"Maybe I'll let you if you tell me what I want to know," he said evenly. "You can carve away."

She giggled. "Touché. Shall we begin?"

_"How's my muse?"_ That was part of the script. She was to be his muse. At this point, he had no control over the terms. This is how it was supposed to go:

_"Fine," she'd say. "Any new murders?"_

_"Nothing interesting. Let's concentrate on you and yours."_

And he was expected to smile. He could even make his eyes smile, he was that good. Children learn well from their parents.

He produced his lightweight, smooth-writing $75 ball-point gel pen. She disassembled it, checking for a bug, then put it back together. Nothing recorded. That was the deal. It all had to come through him.

She stopped a moment and frowned at Rick. "Wait. You're right handed."

He nodded. "I can use my left if I have to. It's just slower and messier." Inspired by Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride, he'd fenced ambidextrously in high school. As an adult, occasionally when his hands got tired, he used the mouse left-handed. It got the job done.

She looked at him skeptically. "You better not fuck up our notes!" She'd already sucked the first cigarette down, almost frantically. She reached for her second, and he dutifully lit it.

She giggled. "I'd forgotten you knew how to do that. Would've expected a James Bond sort of lighter from you."

"Forgotten?" He hadn't. But any detail he could elicit might come in handy.

"Yeah. I worked that movie shoot at Powerscourt Falls with you and Michael. Remember, one of the lads came round with some hash after the third day's shoot, but you were the only one with dry matches. Nerdy Ricky Rodgers with your little plastic pouch."

"The movie shoot," he said. "Never saw it, what did they wind up naming it? Witch of the Waterfall?"

"No. Dark Queen of Palladia. Your own mother had the lead and you never saw it?" She stared at him, aghast. "What kind of son are you, Richard Rodgers?"

"Disgraced, at the time. I think my experiment with hard drugs rather soured Mother on the whole experience." His mother had gotten the lead role, brought him along, and persuaded the director (an up-and-coming unknown) to let Rick play an extra. He briefly wondered if his fencing skills as Tall Soldier With Spear had actually made it to the final cut.

She laughed. "I think it came out in Ireland for a week total. We laughed our heads off."

"It competed with Willow here. Went straight to video."

"Ah." She sighed, a hint of lust. "Val Kilmer in a cage."

He suddenly felt queasy.

She said, "Remember me? I was an extra: Camp Follower With Big Tits Number 3."

He almost laughed. "That was you!" She'd been adorable, average-looking and giggly in her muddy-sexy-peasant costume, with wild brown hair and cleavage down to there. "We called you 'Double Duty Cutie'." It was a low budget production, and she'd worked double duty 'for the exposure', applying fake wounds and dousing them with corn syrup blood.

"Yeah." When dear Martha, the Wicked Queen, mimed mowing the Good Prince's legion down with her Crystal Skull Wand of Power, Ricky had screamed and collapsed in the mud next to Declan, joking between takes while Rosie O'Shaunessy flitted from soldier to soldier, dabbing fake blood and burns all over the fake-fur-and-rust-clad army. She'd straddled Rick, fixing him with blue-green eyes. "Now hold still while I make you look like five miles of bad road," she'd grinned. Dry-humped him just barely through his canvas pants costume. He hadn't minded a bit, and when she stood up, someone made a joke about tent poles.

"Thank you Miss, and may I please have another?" She splashed more blood on them, all the dead soldiers around them laughing uproariously.

"I'll just get another bucket!" And she bounced away to the makeup trailer for a fresh supply of red corn syrup, while his own mother stood on the hill above, waving her staff and raining imaginary, fiery apocalyps on the helpless fallen. Rick genuinely smiled at the memory, then hated himself for it. He placed Rosie's face and confirmed it with his memory of the girl at the drug den. But this was long before she'd carved herself a new identity as Kelly Nieman. Rosie had not yet given herself straight, white teeth, more pronounced cheekbones, nor bobbed her nose, nor shaved her jaw into its current delicate heart point. "You were a makeup artist then. But at the squat you talked about med school. I was admittedly high, but it confused me."

"Not a pro, of course. I did it for Michael as a lark. It was just a weekend and I was an unpaid intern. First time I ever used gelatin and fake blood. They liked me. I was good with the injuries and the dead people."

"So you were. I didn't realize you were already with Dec- with Michael while we were making the movie."

"He got me in with the production company. There's a lot of things you didn't realize," she said. She couldn't believe he didn't ask the most obvious question: Why was Michael in the production? He'd intended to kill Rick first. Then Martha, if things didn't work out.

Rick. So smart, but still so fucking clueless. How would she ever train him? He seemed more cheerful, more at home with her. That wouldn't do. She didn't want him to feel comfortable. She wanted him to earn his way, as he had with Kate.

He had his pen poised. "You ready?"

She took a drag from her smoke and blew it out in an enveloping, sickly, minty cloud. Her tone turned nasty. "Are you?"

She had flipped from warm to cold so quickly. _"I'll speak nice and slowly so you can keep up, and I expect you to read every paragraph back to me. Then at the end, you read back the day's session. Just so that I can be sure it was sinking in."_

He said "There's voice recognition software that can..."

"NO! You have to do it. So that I know you've heard every single word. Taken it to heart. You can't skip over. Can't fast forward. Can't rewind." Another deep drag, calming herself. Exhale. "You have to be here. With me."

He looked trapped, and then he smoothed the expression over. "That's what I agreed to." _Because I had absolutely no idea how horrible it would be._

"I have so much to teach you."

He shuddered internally. She didn't say 'tell'.

She spoke in third person, talking about herself as "Rosie", or "Kelly," and several other names as well, as an author would, reading off the story of her life as if she'd already written it. But she knew she needed a ghost writer. She was only the muse. Richard Castle – her captive ghost. He helped her clarify her thoughts, remember tiny details, list off names, dates, locations...

He'd refreshed his old Gregg shorthand skills. Now, the hard part was endurance; he could only go for about a half-hour before his hand gave out. It had been partially repaired in a couple of surgeries, but they'd had to fuse some bones in the wrist, and it ached almost constantly. She didn't know that he barely wrote anything in that shorthand, that he was able to repeat their conversations almost verbatim because his memory was even better than Michael's.

She'd expected him to struggle, write longhand, and stumble over his notes, while she goaded and corrected him. At first she was disappointed, but teaching him about the methods of her madness was actually more fun when it went fast and smooth. She was surprised to find that, as a ghost writer, Castle was actually beyond her wildest dreams. He asked great questions, listened raptly, wrote with full concentration. And he was such a wonderful audience as well. She'd watch his black pupils expand and contract with emotion; occasionally he'd break out in a sweat, grow pale with shock or red with anger, hide the barest shake of his hands. But as to his expressive control, he was even better than Michael. Mastering himself, obviously thinking he could save the girls by playing it neutral. But genius isn't everything, and she almost felt sorry for him. As if Richard Rodgers could manipulate her. On their very first direct encounter in the Kelly Nieman office, she'd had him eating out of her hand.

_"After Michael's death - and her own arrest - Rosie knew the game was winding down."_

"Don't you mean over?"

She chuckled. _"Not over by half. Winding down. She was going to die in prison. Maybe she'd get shanked by another inmate. But more likely, she'd go through appeal after appeal, be deemed sane. Because from her fourth birthday on, she knew exactly what she was doing. She was sure the men in white coats would deem her as sane as they come. She'd get lethal injection when all was said, and done, and written. But her exploits and ideas would live forever, in the heads of everyone who read them. Inspiring those who came after her. She was a wellspring of true greatness, and someday when Jack the Ripper was forgotten, Rose Caitlin O'Shaunessy's name would continue its trail of blood across the face of a bored, numb world."_

_Rose Caitlin O'Shaunessy – Kelly Nieman – understood loyalty and betrayal. Understood murder. She'd learned it all at her Da's knee, the way another child would learn to bake cookies._

_Her da told her, over and over: "You cannot create loyalty without the fear of loss. People must know what they have to lose. And it's you who have the power to save it, or destroy it. If they work with you, maybe they'll make it out alive, maybe they'll buy safety for the ones they love with their silence, their cooperation. The surrender is the sweetest part. You own them, the way I own you. Some day maybe you'll own me."_

Rick's eyes narrowed, and Rosie glanced over at him, then looked away, telling her story in third person to the wall.

_Her Da was tall, slim, and handsome. Moved deceptively slowly, with large, gentle hands and a kindly bedside manner. Nobody would ever have suspected such a good man. She watched him kill her mother over two days' time, then dismember the body. She was four years old. Watching, she plucked pieces off her doll, one by one. First the head, then the arms. The legs are the hardest. You really need leverage. She'd sat on her mother's torso, gotten blood on her own pink lace tights, and he'd scolded her gently, made her take the tights off and put them in the pile with her mother's bloody clothes. He told her, "You're an ugly little thing, like your Mam. But you're a good daughter. A good girl. You'll take her place."_

"What he did was evil," Rick said quietly.

_"She wanted him all to herself. It was her fault. And with her Mam gone, he told her he loved her. So she didn't care. She belonged to him. What she didn't give up, he took anyway. She learned to like it. She didn't know any different. She thought all daddies taught their daughters like that."_

Rosie looked at Rick sidelong and took up her second cigarette. She caressed it with her lips, her expression wanton. Sometimes a cigarette is more than just a cigarette. "Light me up, Darlin', wouldja?"

Rick's stomach clamped down, his mouth filled with saliva, he wanted to vomit. He lit the second cigarette. The sulphur smell from the match stung his nostrils like a tonic.

She said, "You have a daughter, Ricky. She's a pretty girl. You just love redheads, don't you?" She looked him up and down, twining fingers in the dyed red ends of her hair.

He blew out the match and set it carefully in the plastic ashtray.

"I'm still writing," he said, his mouth dry. "This is not about me."

Rosie nodded. "Yet." She sucked the smoke hard. Rick looked away.

"LOOK AT ME." He said nothing, just watched her, pen poised, waiting while she smoked down half the third cigarette.

Finally she started back up again. _"Her Da said, 'You're a real help, Rosie. When you grow up, you'll have the family business'. She'd helped Da out in the kitchen with her own aul' little knife, wrung pretty pink water out of her own toy kitchen mop. Helped him dispose of her mother's body in a bog off the north country road. And with her little garden spade, she'd dug holes. Every day as she grew, her Da belonged to her a little more, each of them held hostage to the other by the enormity of their deeds..."_

"Which bog?"

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. _A peat-cutter found her mother's head, turned it in hoping it was an archaeological find. Once they realized it was modern, they buried it as a Jane Doe in a potter's field. Da kept the news article. He had a scrapbook." _

"Do you have a scrapbook?"

"Of sorts." Her lips twitched.

"I'd like to see it."

"You can help me caption the mementos, when the time comes..." she winked.

She went on. More details about her childhood. _"Ireland's small, you know. Lots of twisty roads, easy to find the lost places, but you have to be careful... Every few years they moved from town to town. The sainted Dr. O'Shaunessy working for small clinics. Going through the countryside, tending to the poor and the sick. They were always so grateful. He scouted out Traveler women and children, the immigrant girls. Preying on people the Gardai didn't look out for. Getting referrals from priests for troubled girls. He'd take care of their little problems, and while they were out cold," she shrugged. "They never knew the difference."_

She took a long drag from the cigarette. "I'm sure you wonder what happened to him."

"Can you tell me?"

She spoke to the wall again, her voice dreamlike._ "On their last night together, she nodded to herself, tracing a long, red line with her scalpel, as her victim, her father, bound and gagged, writhed beneath the blade. She knew then, for certain. 'You were right, Da. Surrender is the sweetest part. Is it sweet for you?' The gag muffled his screams. She held up a piece of him, his most precious piece. Dangled it in his face and laughed. Michael was there of course, helping her. He always had a funny quip for moments like this. 'Parting is such sweet sorrow.' He loved Shakespeare."_

She looked over at Rick. His eyes were wide and blue and glazed. He stared right at her, looking into the nothing inside her. He could see the nothing. _He could see it._ She felt a thrill. "And do you know what happened then?"

He had that frozen, deer-in-a-headlight look. She smiled, her hand snaked out, and the lit end of her cigarette jammed onto his left index knuckle. The skin sizzled a little, he cried out and pushed his chair back out of her reach. Sat there open-mouthed, horrified, furious.

She repeated, "You know what happened?"

She watched him master himself again. He popped the burnt finger into his mouth a moment. Felt the blister raising. Shook his hand a little to cool it. "Son of a bitch! Was that necessary?"

"You were looking a little bit lost there."

His face was a blank wall, only a muscle pulsing his temples as he ground his teeth. "Tell me. What happened?" He picked up his pen, made the scratch marks, hooks and slashes as she spoke.

She dropped the extinguished cigarette into the ashtray. _"Well, the aul bastard went into shock, and he was dead in five minute, can you believe it? Gone, finally. Gone too soon. Rosie cried then. Rosie cried and cried, and Michael just held her, for hours he did. He just held her. He was so sweet. And when she woke up the next morning, the body was gone, the kitchen was sparkling clean, and there was a red rose in a vase on the table. Her first rose ever."_

Rosie's eyes were tearing. "Isn't that the most romantic feckin' thing you ever heard?"

A knock at the door. "Five minutes."

"Well, isnt it?"

"Romantic? I don't know how to answer that."

Rick read - or rather recited - through the day's dictation. His voice was flat, almost as if he were dreaming. But he had all the words down. The ideas. Kelly nodded. "That's a fine start, Rickyboy."

As if looking for directions to a local park, he asked nicely, "Will you please give me a location for the three girls?"

She giggled and shook her head. "It's only been a day. Are you daft?"

"It's worth asking."

"Sure it is, and it's worth saying no." Kelly offered her cheek to be kissed, as specified in the script. He set down the pad and pocketed the pen.

_"Until tomorrow, then,"_ she said. He was silent. She glared at him sternly.

He'd walked in knowing the script. Knowing from the words she chose that she'd been watching Rick and Kate at work, at home, in bed. But hearing her say those words felt like a fresh stab to the gut. Bile rose in him again, and he swallowed it back. He replied what she'd told him to say. The word in the script:

"_Always_." Stood, leaned over, kissed her offered cheek.

* * *

He moved into the chair and wheeled out, the orderly closing the door quietly behind him, and was met by Kate, her eyes worried and questioning. They exchanged a silent gaze. She wasn't feeling so well for some reason, looked pale. She'd come to support him against the FBI's wishes, and had insinuated – ok, bullshitted - herself in: "I know these killers as well as anyone, and I'm here to support Castle. You can call Captain Gates if you want more authorization." Shaw was off in the field, but Dr. Patel patted the seat next to her. Resources were stretched thin, and she hoped the officer's perspective might help her make sense of the confession.

Kate had listened silently through the interview room's false wall as the session went on. It had indeed been recorded, completely against Rosie's wishes or knowledge. This was not for the purpose of testimony or acquiring warrants – simply for getting law enforcement and forensics into places and information where a warrant wasn't required. Not exactly legal. Something of a gray area.

Rick was already deeply shaken, and he was distressed to find Kate there. She was surprised at his glare. Wordlessly, they hurried down the hallway, showed IDs, signed out, were allowed egress through two guarded gates, out into fresh air. She waited for him to say something. "How did it go?" didn't seem like the best question to ask. His expression was so dark, she finally said, "You were incredible back there."

"You were supposed to stay in the waiting room!" he exploded. He got up out of the chair and limped over to lean against a pole, gasping for breath. "I've changed my mind. I don't want you to have any part of this."

She put a hand out to him. "We're in this together, Rick."

He shook her off, staring at blue sky, green lawns, heard a plane passing overhead. Normal things. "The woman is evil, Kate. I can feel it on me, it's like cancer or something, like I'll have to dig it out of my pores... I don't want this on you."

"Castle. Look at me." He wouldn't. He watched a line of ants devouring a smashed garden snail on the walkway. Kate persisted. "We're strong. We've been through so much, and you're doing something absolutely vital. But this is almost a hostage situation for you, not just the girls. if you can't handle it... that's ok, we'll figure something else out."

"You heard her?"

"Yes, Babe. Every word." Words that had been precious to them, sullied now. Tears started up in her eyes. "She takes pleasure in violating anything she can get her hands on."

"It's what she was taught to do," he said, his stomach clenched in a sick knot.

"Are you defending her?"

"God, no! But look. She's giving us a confession. Juries are gonna have to hear this on both sides of the pond. A judge, and I hope an executioner. And me. But you..." he shook his head. "Please. Let me have... let it be clean between us. You understand?"

"No."

"Stay away from the investigation. Take a sabbatical off the force. At least from homicide. From this..." he shook his head. "Monster."

"Castle, I..."

"I need you. I need you to be just... Just Kate." He looked at her full on, now, the way a man in the desert stares at a mirage and prays for a lake. "You understand me? Just Kate. Please. No guns, no late nights, no murder boards, no fucking psychopaths, no mysteries deeper than a crossword puzzle... Just be safe. Just for a little while."

"I'm needed, Castle. And I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"I need you," he repeated. "Could you grow flowers? Practice your guitar? Make cookies?" He almost said it, he was so sure: "Concentrate on the baby?" But he didn't.

She thought a long moment, his face searching hers. He took a deep breath. Out in the sunshine, everything looked a little better. They pressed their foreheads together, but he smelled like cigarettes, and she felt a little sick. "I'll think about it."

"For me, Beckett?" Under the fading bruises, he brought his puppydog eyes into play – the funny, exaggerated pout he normally saved for things like _'just five more minutes?'_ and _'one more kiss?'_. She sighed. It was a relief to see that thread of humor.

"It's a lot to ask, Castle." She frowned thoughtfully, her fingers playing with her wedding ring. "I could go back to school."

_Even better._ His eyes went wide and bright, and he smiled, radiantly. "Yeah?" He frowned, suspicious. "Wait. Just like that?"

"That little man from the future did say I'd become a senator, and what I know about constitutional law could fill a toothpick instruction manual."

His question rose into a squeak at the end. "You're basing this decision on _Simon Doyle?_"

She thought about the coffee stain on the letter. She'd never told him. Didn't want to give him fodder – although maybe that was what he needed, a story to spin... Someday she would. Someday. Her lips twitched. "Of course not. I've been thinking about it for a long time... Law school. I'd have to start off with my BA of course, although I may be able to skip some classes through my work history. "

"Really?"

"I'll look into it." Kate was not known for compromising, but the relief on his face, that she'd even consider it, was palpable. Normally she'd have expected him to throw his arms around her, kiss her senseless. That is, if he weren't still nursing his broken wrist and messed-up leg. But she saw him holding back. He didn't even touch her arm.

"What is it?"

"I feel like I've been slimed. Not by you, of course. I like your..."

"Don't call it slime." She nodded and wrinkled her nose. "It's weird... I feel something like that, and I wasn't even in the room. Let's go to the hotel and take a shower, huh?"

He nodded. She held his left hand, all the way back in the unmarked, bullet-proof towncar. He didn't remind her about the burn, didn't flinch away, felt the heat of her skin scorching into him, making him clean again, because love heals everything, right? "Please let it heal everything," he thought, while despairing that it ever could. Later she could kiss it better and give him a dressing. But right now he wanted to hurt a little. Which he knew was kind of sick.

In the car, they donned ball caps and sunglasses, she threw on a Hawaiian shirt and a fanny pack. The clerk, who was just slightly stoned, vaguely noted them: a scarred man in a wheelchair, his leggy but otherwise nondescript assistant, checking into an additional night into the King's Arms Budget Motel (Coffee &amp; Wifi in Room!) under the name "Jon and Jennifer Nowicki." They wanted the same ground-floor room with the handicapped placard on the door. The clerk ignored the unmarked police car watching their room from the sidewalk across from the parking lot. They paid cash. They were quiet. That was fine.

* * *

_This has been so hard to write! It's going to get worse, and it will also get better. Thanks for sticking with the story and for your patience as I fixed and reposted it. I'm never going to write about serial killers again; I don't understand how people bring themselves to do it._


	17. Chapter 17

Ok, this is where it gets a little weird. I went to **Powerscourt Gardens** in the mid-80s while touring Ireland. I'd cast about in my mind for awhile creating Rick and Michael's backstory with Rosie, and settled on this because I'm vaguely familiar with the area. It's an amazing old estate with the highest waterfall in the country. A great many movies and TV shows have been shot there, including Excalibur and The Tudors. Sinead O'Connor also shot her music video, "Nothing Compares 2U" at that location. The video is gorgeous and I used it to set the tone for some of my writing.

So in course of writing this story, last night I did a little research on the Powerscourt estate, which was remodeled several times over the centuries and finally burned down in the 1970s. Perhaps I read this on a plaque when I visited it, then filed it away in the trash heap that is my unconscious. The German architect who designed the Palladian mansion in the 1700s was named **Richard Cassel.**

Cassel Anglicized his name to... wait for it... are you still waiting? Ready?

yup.

**Richard Castle.**

Kind of weird, huh? Am I right? :-D

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 17- Nothing Compares**

_It's been so lonely without u here  
Like a bird without a song  
Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling  
Tell me baby where did I go wrong_

_I could put my arms around every boy I see_  
_But they'd only remind me of you_  
_I went to the doctor and guess what he told me_  
_Guess what he told me_  
_He said, "Girl, you better try to have fun no matter what you do."_  
_But he's a fool_

_`Cause nothing compares_  
_Nothing compares 2 u – Prince, Sinéad O'Connor_

* * *

**Day 2:**

It was much like the first.

Every day he rolled, and eventually would limp, then walk, into the clean, sterile room with its stained ashtray and three cigarettes.

He handed her the coffee. She offered her cheek for a kiss, and he gave it to her, praying he could hide the revulsion that rose in him and grew worse at each meeting. Every day, she patted him down. She set the terms, doling out information as she saw fit. The rest of it a catlike smirk and silence unless he asked the right question or said the right thing or breathed the right way or drew the right conclusion. Him staring at her, trying to fathom what was going on in a woman who only lit up when she was talking about butchery. She was slowly smoking away at his soul, and it felt as if he was turning into a slab of jerky.

No weekends off. Every day. Because the clock was ticking. He was virtually her prisoner for 50 minutes a day.

_Every. Day. _

* * *

**Day 3: **He didn't ask the right questions. She said nothing aside from "Light me up."

He lit her cigarettes, and she smoked all three. She just smiled, like a perverted Mona Lisa. He really wanted to throw her on the floor and throttle her. He forced himself to be still, no foot tapping, no drumming. No clock ticking. No exit. He had slept badly the previous night and now he felt a bit sleepy. For a moment his eyes closed, and across the table from him sat a little girl, holding a rattlesnake: uncombed deep-brown hair, light-green eyes, cheeks flushed pink, crooked, unkempt teeth. Her clothes and face were splattered with old, drying blood. Her hair, caked with it. "There's no snakes in Ireland," she said. The snake hissed and struck at him, and the child giggled, but her eyes were narrow, mean.

He said, "We're not in Ireland anymore."

Rosie said, "Wake up, Ricky-boy. You might have missed something." He started awake, sweating. Her third cigarette was down to the filter. She put it into the ashtray with the others, and the charred matches.

"What might I miss?"

"Now, that would be telling."

She said nothing else for the rest of the session.

When the 5-minute-warning knock came, she said, "Do you understand what it's like to want to kill someone, even for the most superficial of reasons? Do you see how you could enjoy it?"

He said, "Yes."

"You can go, then."

He left.

* * *

**Day 4: **  
_"How did you and 3XK find one another?"_

"_His given name – from his mother – was Michael Allen McGowran."  
_  
Castle flinched. The parallel twin phenomenon has been well-documented. Separate lives, odd coincidences. Similar interests, similar names, similar choices. Katherine and Caitlin. Alexander and Allen. Writing murders and committing them.

As a boy, Rick's memory of his birth had been nothing but a red blur, shoved to the back with a trillion other blurs, carefully sifted out and buried to let him function in the present. But he had never forgotten his childhood loneliness, the feeling of someone missing. He remembered that fantasy of having a twin that lived, that ran with him and swam with him, had light saber fights and played video games... He let that fantasy twin become Derek Storm: better, bigger, smarter, stronger than he could ever be. Someone with connections, with a father, who made a difference in the world. Someone who knew just what to say to women, what to wear, just what to do when the going got tough. Castle had slowly remade himself into what he thought Derek should be, then found himself hollow inside. And then Beckett... Beckett saved him from that hollow shell, by wanting something more. She might have been afraid of truly living, but she knew how to stare death squarely in the face. Now it was Rick's turn, and he wasn't going to shirk it, but only four days in, he felt like he was dying inside. If he hadn't already been instrumental in saving Kayla... if there weren't two other girls out there in the dark somewhere, scared and alone... he might have run and never looked back.

"_Michael McGowran found me. Found us." Rosie smiled, her expression soft and sentimental. "He was already a killer. His mum – his adoptive mum – she was an addict, going back and forth between heroin and coke. Speed. Whatever she could get. She whored herself, brought men back to their place, when they had one. Sometimes they'd use him as well as her. Together, you know?" _

Rick said, "God, that's sick."

"Yeah." She took a drag off her first cigarette. Her "yeah" was distinctly Irish, taken on a tiny indrawn gasp as she smoked. Rick was taken back to the time he'd spent hanging out in pubs with Rosie and the boy he'd known then as Declan, along with a pile of other badass-looking extras and a couple of B-level movie stars. The shoot had taken them all over Ireland: Powerscourt, Cork, the Ring of Kerry, Gap of Dunloe, Slane Castle, Sandymount Strand at low tide. The real, actual Cliffs of Insanity: Moher.

She dictated: _"When he was twelve, he'd had enough. His mother shot up in the living room. He waited until her dose kicked in, lifted her up on his shoulder, looped her neck and hauled her over a light fixture with his favorite kind of rope. He told me, 'She was small. I was already three inches taller than her. Alls I had to do was kick a chair over and call 911, crying. They fell for it, no question.' We had a good laugh over that."  
_  
Rick just wrote, thinking about how he'd diagnosed his brother's obsession. He'd had it half-right. That must have bothered Michael. A lot.

_"After Michael faked his mother's suicide, he went to the funeral – such as it was, just a couple of friends and her pimp. He saw her in the pine box, and somehow suddenly realized he was all alone in the world, even worse than being with her, because the pimp was still there. She was a pretty little thing, and the mortician had felt sorry for her, laid her out just so with a scarf round her neck to hide the marks. Michael panicked. He tried to crawl in, cuddle her, and they pried him out and put him in hospital for a while. So he got away from the pimp." _

"What was the pimp's name?"

_"I think he went by 'Dirty Dan'. _

"Dirty Dan."

_"Yeah. First thing we did when we came to America - hunted him down like a feral pig. Made it look like a turf war."_

"That was fast."

_"The hunting was fast," _she smiled_. "The killing was slow... where was I? Then he lived in a group foster home for nearly a year."_

"How did that go?"

"_He loved it. They put him back in school. He tested off the charts, they gave him AP classes, he pulled straight As. Didn't even have to work much at it. Just like you, Ricky." _She took a deep drag, blew the smoke at him, seductive as Bette Davis in an old movie. _"He was mostly self-taught, like you. Spent his afternoons at the New York Library, reading and screwing around on computers. Looking for his real mother – for Martha. _

"She had to be better than the one he'd killed."

Kelly arched an eyebrow._ "You'd think, eh? He had clean clothes and regular meals and a television. He'd sneak into the other boys' rooms at night, do things to them. They were almost all on meds of one kind or another, they slept like stones. Daytimes, he'd steal little things, tell lies, turn them against one another just for practice. Of course, they all hated him, but none of them could explain why. He could run circles around them."_

Rick thought back. "I pulled a lot of pranks at school." Why did he want to have commonality with a monster? What was there to understand?

Kelly grinned. "Boyish hijinks. You'd have had great gas together if things were different."

He nodded silently. She blew a smoke ring, something Rick had always found intriguing but never tried to learn for himself. Smoking had always disgusted him.

"_Michael's mum was an illegal and the authorities had a hell of a time finding her family. When he was thirteen, they located his granny, she said she'd take the boy, and a social worker put him on the plane to Dublin. He'd never met any of the family, and there wasn't much. He was heartbroken - tried to slash his wrists with a plastic knife in the bathroom. But it turned out the ol' lady was all right. She was fond of the drink and on the dole, spent most of her time passed out on her bed listening to BBC1. So he was a free agent, came and went as he pleased. And was already a hacker. Since the moment he heard of the Internet, he knew that was his playground, his cash cow. Because he loved gadgets and he loved puzzles. He grew up poor, like you. Knew the power of money. So it was a natural fit. He got access to a computer center through the help of a social worker, and later at Dublin College. He showed so much promise as a programmer. The first couple he killed, he stole into their bank account and made off with 70,000 pounds."_

"Who were they?"

"Tom and Maggy O'Neil. From Terenure. The neighbors were shocked, they'd seemed like such a nice young couple. Left a two-year-old behind."

Rosie shook her head, smirking._ "Saddest thing."_

Rick nodded. "O'N E I L? Is that spelled right?"  
_  
_"Yeah." Sigh. Puff. Blow.

Rick was reminded of Declan again. "So, can I change the subject a little? Declan and Michael really were the same person?"

"Oh, yeah. He was a lot hairier than you are, it was easy to conceal your resemblance."  
_  
_Rick was stabbed again with a guilt-ridden, messy, angry sadness. He'd really liked Declan, right up to the moment the boy's fist impacted with his face.

Rosie looked at Rick, something wanton in her gaze that made him conceal a shiver. "That was a fun night at the squat-house. I didn't know Michael was planning to OD you."

"Really."

"Oh, yeah. After we got you good and wasted he watched us. You and me."

Rick felt bile rise up in his throat. _"What?"_ The image that flew into his mind left him nauseous.

"Yeah. Don't you remember the bite mark on the inside of your thigh?" She watched him closely, smirking. "Ye'r lookin' a little green there, lad."

Rick closed his eyes, not wanting to look at her. He went to run a hand through his hair but it was gone, and his palm scraped across stitches that prickled and burned. He wanted to launch himself across the table and kill her. Back in time and kill both of them. He wished he could find Simon Doyle and wring the secret of time travel out of him. And he chuckled bitterly at his own foolish fancy in the face of such horror.

She said, "If it makes ye feel any better, you were practically out cold and I had to do all the work." She snickered. "Not much came of it."

"That's very compassionate of you," he said drily.

She laughed, long and loud. "Look, Michael was a perv, but he wasn't that kind of a perv. He didn't lay a hand on you, except to kill you."

Rick nodded, trying to conceal the depth of his relief, and could only hope she wasn't lying to manipulate him further. He took a bottle of water from the the side bag of his wheelchair. Couldn't get it open. She silently offered him a hand, and he let her open it for him.

"Won't be slippin' you a Mickey this time around," she grinned.

"I'm ready to write again," he said. "You were telling me about how Michael found you."

She tamped her cigarette butt out. She'd want another in about three minutes. _"Michael was lonely. Livin' in the projects, hoarding his money, buying up computers and setting up a little mission control for himself. Had lots of acquaintances, lots of people who owed him favors. But nobody to really share things with. He started lookin' at patterns, murders around Dublin, then around the larger countryside. As a fanboy, you know? Just to see what was out there. At that time, Da was concentrating on sluts in North Dublin..."_

"Sluts? Just for clarification?"

"Oh, you know. _Whores, or sometimes just bad girls who slept around a bit. But Da always changed it up – different looks, different ages, different MOs. He just liked to take females, kill them and cut them up."_

"What did he do with the bodies?"_  
_  
"_First, he'd let me practice. We talked about me becoming a doctor. Even then I was quite the artist, he'd let me sew bits together. And then we'd take them up the coast on little day trips, toss them off the cliffs weighed down with stones and such. Rinse out the cooler in the waves. Take a picnic dinner._

"Your father was a doctor, right?"

She nodded. "Pediatrician. He liked children." She giggled, watching his face as he wrote. "Haha, got you. Just kidding. He was a general practitioner. Specialized in gynecology."  
_  
_Rick closed his eyes a second, and she snapped "No goin' to your happy place, Mr. Castle. You stay with me, you hear?"_  
_"Do you know the names of any of those women?"

She rattled off seven names, or at least seven pseudonyms. He got spellings, descriptions, distinguishing features, how and where they'd been disposed of. He wound up having to make little chart as she bounced around, filling in different facts. She'd been young, so much of the detail was lost.

When he was finished, he read it back to her. She corrected him: "No, the first Ina, the tall one, she had the blonde roots. The second Ina was five-three, maybe, and her hair was dark brown. Brandi had a birthmark. On her right tit. It was shaped like a rabbit."

* * *

**Day 5: **

"Yesterday you said Michael found you."

_"So I did. Da hired the whores. For the ones who were just party girls, I helped him lure them someplace discreet." _She put on a childish face and voice._ "'I can't find my Da, and I'm lost. Will you help me?'" _She snickered._ "Hearts of gold, those girls."_

"_When did you make your first kill?"_

"_Oh, I must've been thirteen, just after my first period." _She tamped her cigarette out._ "After that, it just depended on our mood, who made the kill. We always took care to throw the clothes out separately at the the tip or in a public trash can, dumping the body parts someplace else. This was before DNA matching became widely available. That sort of expensive resource was rarely wasted on wayward girls. So one day, I'm about twenty, never even been out on a date of course, though I'd had crushes. This boy comes to the door, he's maybe fifteen. Hands behind his back. Da's not home but I open the door. And he's SO handsome, tall, charming. Says, "Pardon me, are you Rose O'Shaunessy?" He has this cute American accent. _

_And I says, "Who wants to know?" _

_He says, "I think you might have left this behind." And he sticks his foot in the door before I can close it. He's quick," _she paused and stretched, yawned a little, pointing her full breasts at her confessor._ "_Almost as quick as you, Castle."

Rick nodded. "I suppose he might still be alive if he weren't."

Rosie raised her eyebrows. He couldn't tell whether it was regret or admiration. "Yeah." She continued. "_Anyway, he's holding a trash bag, I'm looking at it, and I says, "I have no idea what that is."_

He empties it out on the kitchen floor, and of course it's the bloody clothes from our last session, two days ago, and ugh, the smell! And then he's grinning: "So, can I see her?"

"_I don't know what you're talkin' about." _

"_The body. The girl said her name was Maire. She was lying. It was Saiorce." _

"Sorsha?"

"It's Irish. Means 'freedom'. S-a-i-o-r-c-e."

"Got it."

She continued. _"'Get out or I'll call the police,' I says." _

"_And he laughs and comes in close, looks down at me, and his big brown eyes are so beautiful. 'I've been lookin' for you all my life,' he says. And he's runnin' his fingers through my hair..."_

She fell silent a moment, twisting fingers through her greasy, dyed, strawberry-red locks, so similar to Martha's before it went gray and she started dying it a more intense auburn. Rick saw something like genuine grief cross Rosie's face. '_He shows me his wrist, with the aul pink scars, and then he takes my hand, and kisses the cuts on the inside of my arm, the place where I test the blade."_

Rosie held out her forearm and Rick peered at it. So faint, dozens of short silver-white scars, a calendar of death, written on skin.

"_Michael says 'Nobody hurts us anymore. We stop turning the knife on ourselves. It's you and me now. Always.'" _

She stared at her wrists, lost in memory. Rick sat still, watching her, waiting, for an interminable period. Neither of them had access to a clock or phone. Eventually she said, "How's your finger?"

"Raised a blister. Almost healed up now."

"It'll leave a scar," she said. "Something to remember me by." Her voice was almost sad.

"That was hardly necessary."

She said, "At your last moment before death, you'll be thinkin' of me."

The knock came. "Five minutes."

She was still looking at her wrists. Then her eyes moved slowly to Rick's face, and he saw the beginnings of tears. She said, "What if I made a mistake?"

Good lord. Was she actually having a crisis of conscience? "A mistake?"

"Back at the crash. What if I let the wrong man die?"

He shifted wordlessly into his wheelchair and headed to the door. She leaped up, but her feet were chained. "Don't you walk away from me!" Her screams followed him. "It's you and me now, Rick. _You and me!_ You took him from me and now I'm yours, the way it was always going to happen. I'm stuck with you and you will NEVER be the same. I can already feel you changing..." The orderly came in, and her voice grew shrill, became inarticulate shrieking. Castle felt as if his spine were chalkboard and she was a giant fingernail.

He signed out with the orderly, a big blond jarhead type named Minsky, built like a side of beef. They could both hear her screaming. The orderlies had been filled in on the situation. Minsky shook his head sympathetically. "She's a piece of work. Tomorrow?"

Castle nodded. "Yeah. See ya."

* * *

•

Castle went to the Twelfth Precinct on crutches the next morning, even though it hurt. Checked in with Gates. Any intimidation he'd ever felt by her was gone – compared to Rose O'Shaunessy, Victoria Gates was sweet as pie. "Thanks for seeing me, Sir. Are they getting anything?"

She invited him into her office. "Would you care to sit, Mr. Castle?"

He shook his head. "Thanks, I'll stand if you don't mind." He'd already showered and changed twice, but he could still feel Rosie's smoke in his lungs.

Gates sat on the side of her desk. She wouldn't have admitted it in a million years, but she felt oddly intimidated. Castle was a tall man, and she was petite. Despite the crutches and injuries, he was strong, and in this state, he was scary. His rugged features, once softened by the boyish flop of hair, were too craggy with his head shaved and his brow and nose still swollen. The scar on his temple was still red and raw-looking. But worse was his mood. She had never seen him like this. Restless, hard-edged. Anger seething underneath the skin, different from the anger he'd sometimes shown when he'd been on the outs with Beckett. This didn't diminish him or make him petty. It seemed to fuel him.

"I feel like the FBI's dragging their feet."

She had to be diplomatic. "I know they're doing all they can, and you know Jordan Shaw's track record."

He nodded. It had always chafed him and Kate when their reach extended their grasp. It had been easier to work around with Montgomery, who was much better at smoothly manipulating the system (eventually to his own detriment). Castle was stuck with a pang of missing his friend.

She wasn't trying to be hard. "Because we're a homicide division, unfortunately I'm not allowed to do much on this case unless someone has actually wound up dead within my jurisdiction. And this is not the only case on my plate. I've granted Beckett a leave of absence, Ryan and Esposito are working overtime whether I want them to or not, and the threats against this department have put a strain on everyone's resources."

He looked ashamed. "If it weren't for me, this never would have happened."

Gates scoffed. "Seriously? 3XK would have become a serial killer whether or not he met you. Whether or not he discovered you were his brother. I just have to wonder how much more mayhem he'd have committed, had you not been there to thwart him."

Castle sighed. "I wish I could believe that."

"You and Beckett's team have solved over a hundred murders. At least eleven of those were committed by 3XK and his associates. There's no way to know how many you've prevented. So let it go, Mr. Castle. Considering that there's a psychopathic branch in your family tree, you've done all right."

This might not have had the same effect coming from anyone but Victoria Gates, who'd always been one of his worst critics. He turned away to hide the tears in his eyes. Gates went on, her voice softer. "We've been in touch with both the FBI and Interpol. The recordings you've gotten us so far have been invaluable." She checked her notes. "The descriptions of the O'Neils in Terenure match, and they've got hits on four of the seven prostitutes from North Dublin."

Castle was looking at nothing. "That's good. Any word on the other missing girls?"

"No. I'm sorry. And I've heard the recordings, I know you're trying..."

"Trying isn't good enough," he snapped. "She said we don't even know what country they're in, and Long Island is only a four-hour flight from just about everywhere."

Gates sighed, and then smiled bitterly, surprising him. "What I wouldn't give to go in and slap that bitch around."

Castle chuckled miserably. "I appreciate your support. But she doesn't want that from you. She wants it from me."

Gates winced. "Oh, God."

"I'm not... I can't do that." He ran desperate hands over his scalp. "She wants to turn me into _him_."

"No." Gates slipped down off her desk, and took Castle's hands gently in her own small, strong grasp. "No. She wanted to turn him into _you_. She admires you, Mr. Castle. I've seen something like attraction in her transcripts." (She grimaced, having read them and knowing their back-story somewhat). "You may be able to utilize that if you have the stomach for it. She just needs to know you're strong. That you're willing to kill to please her."

Castle glared. "I'm _not._"

Gates let his hands go. Her voice was forceful, as if she were talking to a subordinate, a soldier. They both knew full well that she couldn't order him around; what she was offering was the strength of her faith in him. "You can cut a deal with her. You tell her that if she gives you all three girls, she can have what she wants. You're a creative man. I think you can get her to listen to you without compromising either your sanity or your safety."

"You're sure she doesn't know about Kayla Twimbly?"

"As far as the press knows, Kayla is still missing. She's well-hidden, and we've got a tight lid on Grossmann, too."

"But what about Dr. Nieman's murder victims?"

"She implied they kept trophies. Perhaps what we find will lead us to that and some closure of cold cases. But their other victims are dead. Solving their murders won't bring them back. Make the girls your priority. The murders can take care of themselves for now."

Rick's mouth twitched at the corner. "Who are you, and what have you done with Victoria Gates?"

Gates grinned wolfishly. "Oh, I'm still here. And I miss the man-child I used to be able to push around."

He chuckled. "At this point it's a race to see who breaks first, Nieman or me."

Gates smirked. "I hear tell that Detective is very good with a broom."

Castle shook his head, a little ashamed somehow. "Beckett's swept up enough of my messes."

"I don't think that's how it's all going to play out, Mr. Castle." She smiled. "Something tells me that you'll find a way to come through this in one piece."


	18. Chapter 18

_minor edits to keep it current on _

**Too Soon Chapter 18B – Daddy's Gonna Pay or, "This had better work"**  
_You've got a head full of traffic You're a siren's song  
You cry for mama But daddy's right along  
He gives you the keys to a flaming car  
Daddy's with you wherever you are  
Daddy's a comfort He's your best friend  
Daddy'll hold your hand to the end_

_a, a-ha sha-la, a-ha sha-la Daddy's gonna pay for your crashed car - U2_

**June 20**

Rose O'Shaunessy was led into the interview room to find Rick Castle waiting, her Kate Beckett-style latte in hand. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He actually came forward and kissed her cheek without prompting. She knew he was breaking down. Was it her imagination, or were his lips finally lingering on her? "How's my muse today?" he purred. _That voice of his._

She patted him down, taking a little extra time. "I'm all right," she said. She felt a small brick-like shape in his back pocket and froze. "What is that?"

He pulled out a little silver camera, digital and sleek, but not new. "I thought you'd never ask."

"I told you. NO recording devices. I want you to remember every word."

He sat back, out of her reach, his smile teasing. "I brought this for you to watch."

She switched from hostility to a pang of curiosity. "What is it?"

"I made a little home movie." He grinned. "You mind if I sit with you?"

He could see her interest was piqued. He actually picked up his chair and carried it over to sit next to her. He was no longer wearing a sling, just a lightweight, high-tech plastic mesh cast on his arm, and his biceps bulged. He was strong enough, certainly, although she knew it must hurt his hand to hook it underneath the chair's back, balancing the weight.

Richard Rodgers Castle was sitting next to her. _Willingly_. His thigh, pressed against hers. He was warm and solid and smelled better up close than she could have possibly imagined. He took her hand. "You're gonna love this," he grinned. His facial bruising and swelling had faded away to almost nothing, and even his nose looked good. The attending physician who patched him up had done a much better job than she was willing to admit. Rose felt a rush of warmth between her legs. She'd watched him more than a few times, in the throes of passion with Kate, with his previous lovers, and alone. Usually she'd watched the videos with Michael. Sometimes she'd gone back and watched them again, by herself. Those images flashed vividly in her mind.

She said, "What kind of home movie?"

The camera was several years old but had a video feature with a tiny screen, maybe 4 by 6 centimeters. He started the video and then let her hold it.

He was recording a selfie, his nose enormous at the center of the screen until he pulled the camera back to arm's length.

_"SO, here I am in the Old Haunt. My bar, with its fascinating history and mysterious basement lair." _The screen was tiny, but she, Michael, and Grossmann had imprisoned Kayla Twimbly there, and she knew it well._ "Let's take a little tour, shall we? I'm already in the basement."_

Rose started to shake. Rick put an arm around her shoulders, and repeated in her ear: "You are going to love this."

* * *

_In the video, Castle was cursing his bad right arm. He set down the camera on his desk, positioning it to record as he pulled the bookcase back. He retrieved the camera and slipped through the hidden door, camera-first. The screen was barely able to register the dark brick hallway, but when he came to the door of Kayla's prison, he held up a key in his gloved hand. "See what I stole from Grossmann's key chain?" He grinned, and pounded on the door._

_"Kayla, you in there?"_

_"Who is it?" Rose could hear the young woman's voice through the door._

_"Richard Castle."_

_"Oh, my God, help me! Help me!"_

_Castle's voice said, "Hang on, I hurt my right hand. Slows me down. Stupid key..." He unlocked the door and went inside the dank little prison._

_"Thank God!" the girl cried. "Hurry! Hurry, he'll be back soon..." Kayla was chained to the bed, wearing nothing but a tank top and panties. A short, curvy, pretty young woman, she was bruised and her blonde hair was oily and tangled. For a moment Castle fumbled with the camera, struggling to close and lock the door one-handed, then he moved across the room. He trained the camera on Kayla's dirty, tear-stained face. She stared into it, struggling to comprehend his actions. "What is that for?"_  
_  
"Oh, just for the record," said Castle's cheerful voice._

_The girl's face was pitiful. "What..." her voice nearly failed her. "What are you doing? You're not going to help me?"_

_"What made you think I would? I can pin your murder on Grossmann." He set the camera to the side, but didn't check the angle. The grainy screen focused on a side cabinet door in the room. Shadows moved and Kelly listened as the girl begged and screamed._

_"Oh, shit. No. Please, don't. NO!"_ Then her voice became muffled, and Rose recognized the sound of someone being smothered, probably with a pillow.

_Richard Castle's voice was steely and cold, through gritted teeth. "Don't fight it anymore. We're all tired of fighting, aren't we?"_

Rose got chills. It had been too long. She felt an ache in her arms, the desire to hold someone, hold them down...

_He picked up the camera again. Kayla Twimbly was lying on the bed, still, her eyes half open, her mouth gaping, tongue lolling a little over her lower teeth and lip. The screen was small, but clearly the girl was dead._

_Richard Castle, her killer, turned the camera back to his own face, grinning and sweaty. "And that's with one hand tied behind my back, metaphorically speaking. Happy?"_

* * *

Rose O'Shaunessy looked over at Rick, who was gazing proudly at the screen. She breathed, "You did it. You finally did it." Her eyes spilled with tears. "Oh, Rick. Darlin', I am so proud of you."

"Yeah?" He gazed into Rose's eyes eagerly. "I spent days thinking everything over, and it suddenly hit me: you're right. I am a killer. I've been holding back on the impulse, trying to get it out with my writing. And it's not enough. It's never been enough."

"Oh, Rick."

"I'm so sorry it took me so long to understand. But now I know." He shook his head. "Thank you. It's like a whole new world to me." He looked darkly at the dead girl's tiny image, then shut the camera off. "I want more."

He took Rose's cuffed hand and halfway up, met it with his lips. She found herself giggling like a schoolgirl. _Those eyes._

She was barely able to contain her excitement. "Has anyone else seen this?"

"No. Just you and me." He smiled grimly. "And nobody will." He popped the card out of the camera's belly, dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his heel. "I put the key back on Grossmann's ring. He'll find the body this afternoon when he goes down to feed her."

"Grossmann's gonna shit bricks," Rose mused with a dreamy smile. She stared down at the shattered memory card, then up at Castle, her lips trembling. He got down on the floor to retrieve the bits, and her gaze followed him raptly. He knelt before her, his hands on her knees, and ran them up the outside of her thighs, to her waist. She hissed through her teeth, and felt a surge of desire course through her. With her hands cuffed she could easily have caught him, possibly strangled him with enough of a will. She wondered if it was possible to get him to screw her, here, in her prison, before she killed him. She pushed that thought away. Not yet. She hadn't told the whole story yet.

Rick watched Rose's face carefully. He was so close to convincing her, he could feel it.

He was so close to falling. She could feel it.

She barely heard his whisper. "Can I kiss you?"

She shook her head. "Soon."

He pouted and stood with effort, then sat and massaged the still-tender tissue on his knee and ankle. "What more do you want? Haven't I proven that I'm yours?"

"You've proven that you know how to kill. You haven't proven anything else yet."

"Then what does it take?"

"Get me out of these cuffs and I'll show you."

"I can't..."

"Of course you can. You don't carry a spare key anymore?" she scoffed.

He rolled his eyes, pulled out his wallet, and produced a handcuff key – a slow process, one-handed. "I doubt this will fit."

"Try it."

The key didn't fit. She sighed. "Oh, well. Maybe tomorrow. You'll figure something out."

"Yes," he said gruffly. "I guess I will."

He moved his chair back across from her, smiled, and lit her cigarette. "Tell me more about the time you and Michael spent in New York."

Rose stared into his eyes, so warm and blue. She knew it in her heart, as she'd known all along: the man was one in a billion.

* * *

**June 16 (two days earlier)**

Kayla Twimbly sighed and set her book down. She'd been rescued by the 12th Precinct detective team almost two weeks before, and although she was supposedly safe, she didn't have a lot to do. She was bored, restless, and lonely. She missed her friends and her phone. Under guard 24 hours a day in a lower West Side safe-house, she wasn't even permitted to peek out the window, although it wasn't as bad as being locked alone in the dark for days at a time... Her companion on shift, Officer Cindy Hu, smiled over at her, and Kayla tried to conceal her envy. Officer Hu spent a lot of time on Tweeter. Kayla wasn't even allowed to touch a phone, let alone post anything or do any gaming. Too risky.

Hu said, "Karpowski's here." The knock came, and Hu gestured to Kayla: "Wait." She checked her phone, readied her gun, then double-checked the security camera which revealed two women on the porch. She opened the door. Karpowski hustled in, along with a tall brunette who might have been a supermodel.

Hu said, "ID?" and the tall woman flashed an NYPD badge. Each of them was clutching several large shopping bags and totes. Hu locked the door behind them.

"Hi there, Tough Stuff," Karpowski called out.

Kayla hopped off the couch and hurried to her. "Hey, Roselyn. What did you bring?"

"Oh, all kinds of swag," Karpowski beamed, hauling everything to the dining table.

The tall woman introduced herself. "I'm Mr. Castle's fiancee. My name's Kate Beckett."

Kayla said, "Whoa. You're Nikki Heat?"

The woman blushed a little. "Sort of." Kayla didn't give a rat's ass about the Page 6 social scene, but she was a fangirl and expected, somehow, a little more musi-ness from The Muse. She also seemed more shy than Kayla would have imagined Nikki to be. Kayla toned her excitement down. It was good just to have a visitor, let alone one bearing gifts. Kayla was vegan, and Roselyn had brought a pile of fruits, vegetables, nuts, tofu, crackers... Beckett started putting the perishables in the fridge, but kept the packet of Skinny-Weat crackers out. She kept looking at them. She was pretty slim, so Kayla figured she was contemplating a cheat session on her low-carb plan.

"Help yourself to the crackers, they're more than I can eat," Kayla said. She washed an apple, quartered it with a knife on a cutting board, and munched on it hungrily, digging through the second bag. A pile of books, graphic novels, and all the Nikki Heat books plus the latest Derrick Storm. She laughed. "Jeez, Mr. Castle doesn't hold back, does he?"

"Nope," said Karpowski. "He's a sweetie. He feels so bad about what happened to you."

Kayla nodded, serious. "Yeah. Me too. He's not in trouble, is he?"

Beckett spoke. "No, he's been a victim in this whole operation, too. And he's working with law enforcement to bring in the bad guys."

Officer Hu said, "If you're all settled, I'll just be taking off, then..."

Karpowski nodded. "See ya soon."

"Yeah, hope not," Hu grinned over at Kayla. "Sooner your life gets back to normal, the better."

Kayla flounce girlishly, belying her tomboy appearance. "Normal! Ha!" Kayla had worked part-time in a comic book store and attended the local city college as a multimedia major. She didn't consider herself too normal.

Kate went on: "Castle's daughter is almost your age. He had her pick out some clothes for you. Your mom asked if she could send a few things from your apartment..."

Kayla wrinkled her nose. "I don't think I want anyone going through my apartment any more than they already have," she said. "Especially not my mom. I've got quite a collection of toys." Truth was, trying to fight off her kidnappers, the place had been pretty trashed. No way she'd ever want to move back in.

Beckett checked into the bathroom while Karpowski and Kayla laid out the clothes. They weren't a perfect fit and not exactly her style, but Alexis Castle had kept it simple: shorts, jeans, Ts, basic underthings, flip-flops, and some sneakers. Karpowski had mentioned Kayla was a Buffy fan, and there was a lightweight hoodie with a graphic silkscreened on the back from her favorite show.

Returning from the restroom and grabbing the box of crackers, Beckett smiled warmly. "You should take a closer look at that hoodie."

"HOLY SHIT!" Kayla cried. "SMG autographed it? Crap. I can't wear this!"

Beckett said, "That's between you and the shirt. Alexis told me she got it at a convention last year."

"Man." Kayla munched on her apple. She stood back, then set the apple down on the counter, her fingers pressed hard over her eyes. "This is all so weird."

Karpowski's mood gentled. "How you doin', girl?"

Kayla's amber eyes were bloodshot when she looked up. Roselyn dipped her head a little.

"You want a hug?

"Just... a little one."

"Ok, you just tell me how you want it, Kayla." The young woman stepped to Roselyn and felt the curly-haired detective's arms settle gently around her, patting softly on her back. She laid her head on Karpowski's shoulder. Just briefly, and then the panic set in and she had to back away again.

"Thanks."

Beckett popped a tissue out of the box and handed it to Kayla, who blew her nose. Being confined, even in the gentlest hug, scared the young woman now. She was trying to work her way up to it. She had survived one of the worst possible experiences. She expected herself to get over it. Eventually. Why was the aftermath so damn hard?

Karpowski asked, "You sleep ok last night?"

"No. I kept dreaming about Grossmann. Motherfucker."

"I'm so sorry you're goin' through this." Karpowski paused. "Any result from the exam yet?"

The girl smiled, relieved. "He was clean, and I guess he was shootin' blanks."

Karpowski sighed with gratitude. "So glad to know that."

Kayla looked at the floor a long moment, her face somber. "Any sign of the other girls?"

"No." Beckett hesitated. "Did Grossmann ever mention them?"

"Oh, yeah. He said there were two others, and that we'd all be dead by the 4th of July."

Beckett said, "Did he ever give any indication, at all, of where they might be?"

"I got all these questions before, but I was so wigged out, God knows what I even said. I've been wracking my brain about it. I think one of the girls might be in a different time zone."

"Really. Why?"

The girl closed her eyes, putting herself back into a place she never wanted to see again. Kayla slid down the cabinet door to curl in a ball on the floor, just as Karpowski, Ryan, and Esposito had found her in the dungeon at the Old Haunt, with not even a light bulb in reach to comfort her through long days of isolation. She had been hauled out of her apartment by two masked men and a woman, and after her imprisonment, hadn't seen daylight in a week. She'd been naked, skinny and filthy, barely able to reach a portable chemical camping toilet Grossmann had so thoughtfully provided. She'd been balled up on a sleeping bag, her long, blonde hair matted, her thighs bloodstained. Karpowski had covered her, kept her sheltered until the FBI and ambulance team arrived. Ryan and Esposito had directed Shaw and her team to come in the back way, through the tunnels, so that Grossmann wouldn't see any police activity there in case he showed up to work early. Karpowski had talked to Kayla, soothing her, calling her strong, tough, brave. All true. "I'm amazed you're even able to put a sentence together after what you've been through," she'd said, and she'd held the girl's hand all the way to the hospital, through the rape kit exam, until her mom showed up, weeping hysterically. Kayla did fine until her mom's arms wrapped around her, then she started screaming like a wildcat, flailing in a blackout. She was still trying to come out of it.

Karpowski's heart broke for the girl, the remembered trauma screwing Kayla's pretty face into a knot of horror. "He was on the phone with someone, maybe his third or fourth visit... the fourth time he came in to..." She stopped a moment, pressing her lips together until they went white.

Kate and Roselyn shared a horrified glance and got down on the floor with her. Kate said, "Kayla, it's all right. Either way. Just breathe, and remember you're safe now."

"You don't have to tell us..." Karpowski said.

The girls' eyes were squeezed shut, and she stammered. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I _do_. This... okay okay okay he was, was, he was on the phone. He said something, _'Your flight go okay?_ and then he, he listens. And he goes, _'You're lucky, mine's a bitch.'_ And he listens, then he goes, _'Well, you're five hours ahead of the rest of us, and the pubs close at 11, so go get a drink - no. Go get a pint while you can.'_"

Kate said, "Wow. Kayla. You are amazing."

The girl's eyes were still closed, her brows furrowed tightly. She added, "He said, _'If 3XK dies I'll just kill her myself. Don't wanna get caught red-handed.'_ I'm so scared, I think I'm just gonna die anyway."

"Kayla. Hey, Tough Stuff."

Now Kayla wrapped her arms around her head, tucked up tight. "Leave me alone. Don't touch me."

Roselyn got on hands and knees, not too close. "Kayla. It's me. Karpowski. Remember me?"

Kate said softly, "The sun's out. Open your eyes. You can see the sunshine." She sighed. The kid really belonged in a hospital, not a safe house. "Kayla, you know that Grossman came downstairs for two hours every day? He was using his work to conceal what he was doing to you."

The girl twitched. "Fucking asshole."

"That's my girl." Karpowski was encouraged. "Get as mad as you want."

Kate was smiling. "You just gave us the best goddamn lead."

Kayla's eyes opened, and she squinted at them. "What?"

"You might just help us find the other women, Kayla."

The girl brought her hands down. She sat up, and Karpowski got up to pour her a tumbler of water.

Beckett said, "We checked the computer Grossmann used for work. He always logged in between 2 and 4. Offhand, did you hear him moving around before he came in? No, don't close your eyes, you don't have to think too hard about it."

Kayla nodded. "I could hear his feet on the stairs. He'd wait a while. Then he'd, he'd come in."

"Good. Good. So, say he was coming in to see you at 2:30, 3 pm. Whoever he talked to had one of the other girls, right? And they were in another time zone."

Kayla nodded. "Five hours ahead. With a pub."

"We're talking England here. Maybe Ireland or Scotland."

"He took her to another country?"

"Could be. Gives us a start." Kate grinned.

Karpowski added, "You are goddamn amazing, you know that?"

"I guess I am," Kayla sighed. "I don't feel so amazing."

"Look," Karpowski said. "Go take a nice shower with the shampoo Kate brought you. Get out of those crappy scrubs and put some real clothes on."

Kate said, "Meantime I'm gonna call this lead in, see if we can get something moving. Ok?"

They stood, and let Kayla get up on her own, because she really wanted to.

"Seriously, Kate, have some crackers." She tossed the box to Detective Beckett, who caught them deftly.

"Thanks."

Kayla grabbed her bags of new clothes and toiletries. She stopped in the hallway, her expression edging on hope. "Look," she said. "I would do anything to take those bastards down."

Karpowski nodded. "You've made a great start. Now go clean up." Karpowski always told herself it was sheer force of habit that made her speed-dial Captain Gates first, rather than Agent Shaw. It's not like she actually worked for the FBI or anything.

* * *

"Hi." Castle's voice sounded exhausted, flat.

"I have some good news," Kate said. She nibbled on a cracker, trying to hide the crunchy noises. From his end of the signal, it sounded like she was mixing cement.

She heard him perking up. "What is it? Do you want to tell me in person?"

Kate said, "No, that's all right."

"Oh."

"Not that I don't want to see you, it's just..." she hesitated. "I'm not really supposed to tell you details about the case." She was hoping that would pique his interest. She took a bite of cracker that exploded all over her chest in crumbs, and washed it down with a sip of water.

"I... don't tell me anything you shouldn't." He sounded disappointed.

_"Well," _she thought_, "That's different." _"Castle, are you okay?"

"Not really." He sighed. "Look, if you called me to not tell me something, that's fine, but..."

"I just had a quick talk with Kayla. Karpowski let me ride along when she delivered your presents."

He was immediately worried. "Jeez, Kate, are you sure nobody followed you to the safe house?"

Beckett nodded, though he couldn't see her. She was suddenly hit with a deep longing to see him, hold him, kiss the anxiety away. "I watched the rear-view the whole way, and the agent guarding the house is a pretty thorough guy."

He sighed again, this time with relief. "How's Kayla?" He'd been having nightmares about the girls.

Kate hesitated. "The good news, she loved her haul. She's a fan, although I suspect she'll sell the books for their autograph value."

She could hear the bittersweet smile in his voice. Finally, a ray of light. "Ha! That's good to know."

Beckett added, "Castle, she gave us a lead." She repeated what Kayla had said. "So it looks like the other kidnappers may be in Europe."

Castle blew out a long, cleansing breath. "That complicates things no end." He grew quiet a second. "Did she say 'five hours ahead of the rest of us'?"

"I think so. Yes."

"If she's remembering accurately..." he hesitated. "What did Grossmann mean by 'the rest of us'?"

Kate said, "Wow. I don't know, that could be anything from just himself and the people we've arrested, to a whole cadre."

Rick persisted. "And do you know who's with them?"

Kate's smile widened. "The third girl, still missing."

"Yes! So she's..."

"In the Eastern Seaboard time zone!"

"Well, that's only a few hundred thousand square miles. Assuming she hasn't been moved."

Kate's face fell. "Oh, God, Castle, those girls could be anywhere."

"Not just anywhere. The more I talk to Kelly Nieman, the more sure I am she wants me to find them."

_"Why?"_

"I think she wants me to kill them. To prove myself."

Kate had to sit down. All the blood seemed to drain out of her brain. "God."

Karpowski looked over at Beckett in concern. The detective looked like she was going to pass out. Karpowski thought, _"I sure am pouring a lot of water for other people lately."_

Karpowski brought Beckett a fresh drink, then mimed waving hello at her phone. "Karpowski says hi," Beckett said faintly. "Castle says hi."

Karpowski said, "I'll just... go read something." She grabbed one of Kayla's books and disappeared into the second bedroom.  
Kate sipped water while Castle talked. "Are you going to ask Nieman about it directly?"

He said, "I don't think so. I think I'm going to surprise her."

"Surprise her how?"

As he outlined his plan, Kate's face went from horror to amazement to enthusiasm. "You know what they say in cartoons, Castle?"

He chuckled. "An idea so crazy..."

She finished for him. "...it just might work."

"You know that was actually coined by Zhuge "Sleeping Dragon" Liang in the second century AD when he sat on a fortress wall playing a lute..."

Kate grinned. "Shut up, Castle."

"I love you too, Kate."


	19. Chapter 19

I had a hard time with technical difficulties over the last few weeks, unable to upload new chapters or stories, and all my edits and updates got lost. It was pretty painful, and I want to thank everyone who encouraged me and clamored for more chapters. I hope you'll find it was worth the wait.

**Too Soon Chapter 19: Rick Buys the Farm**

_Aww, no. NOW what do you pack?  
Right-you gotta pack an even SMALLER version of your stuff.  
The fourth version of your house.  
Only the stuff you know you're gonna need.  
Money, keys, comb, wallet, lighter, hanky, pen, smokes, rubber and change.  
Well, only the stuff you HOPE you're gonna need. _  
_George Carlin, 'Stuff'_**  
**

**June 17**

A somewhat travel-worn white van with "Farm 2 U" emblazoned on its panels traveled upstate from New York City. Jackson Hunt was at the wheel, his son Rick in the passenger seat, and Kate had volunteered to sit in the back, alone with her thoughts and queasiness. They all wore hats and sunglasses. Kate's hair was bundled up into a watch cap despite the heat, and on her chin she wore a brown goatee that hid most of her mouth and distorted her delicate jawline. At first glance someone might have mistaken her for a young man, if that someone were either blind or a piece of low-grade facial recognition software.

They didn't talk much; Hunt had a scanning radio in this van as well, and he explained the various kinds of chatter to Rick as they traveled the highway. "That was a Sunni warlord. He says there's a shipment of guns coming in on Sunday, but the delivery conflicts with his daughter's wedding."

"Wow," said Rick. "I thought mine was problematic."

Surprisingly, around 3pm, Kate slumped down for a nap, her head lolling at an awkward angle. Rick glanced back at her and asked his father to pull over. "I'll sit in back with her. You know the way?"

Hunt nodded. "I'll get us there." He added more quietly, "She okay?"

Rick shrugged. "I hope so." He was worried. She'd seemed depressed over the last few days, or at least preoccupied. They'd both been through a lot, and their ordeal wasn't over.

As Rick transferred to the back seat, Esposito and Ryan pulled in behind them on the gravel turnout. Javi jumped out and ran up to the van. He and Ryan were wearing their 1970s hairdos and big aviator sunglasses, decked out in various shades of denim, olive, and black. "Everything okay?"

Rick motioned for quiet, and Esposito glanced at Kate with a grin as Rick silently settled her against his shoulder. The detective closed the door with as little sound as possible, and in a moment the two vehicles pulled back onto the interstate, driving through New York suburbs that abruptly gave way to countryside. Kate would have recognized this route had she been awake. Rick was glad they weren't blunting the surprise.

Outside Middletown, they pulled onto a side road, then passed a series of hand-painted plywood signs.

_"**Blueberry Hill Farm  
Since 1955  
**Oldest Organic Cooperative_  
_In Orange County, NY"_

_"Pick Your Own_  
_Berries 'N' Cherries!"_

_"Corn on the Cob!"_

_"Petting Zoo!"_

_"Christmas Trees!"_

_"Local Honey!"_

_"Pumpkin Patch!"_

Hunt grinned. "No Burma-Shave?"

"What's Burma-Shave?"

"Do I have a book for you..." Hunt said. "Ever heard of Gene Shepherd?"

"The Christmas Story writer?"

"Yeah..."

They turned left at a gravel road and progressed slowly between cherry, almond and apple orchards, and fields of baby pumpkin and squash vines, half-grown corn stalks, strawberries and alfalfa, for about a kilometer. They passed a gaily-painted farm stand that had already closed up for the day, through a garden patch bursting tomatoes, beans and cucumbers. The main building was a big old white Queen Anne farmhouse with a wraparound porch and green wooden shutters. There was a matching cottage made from a converted carriage house, and a smaller cottage, several sheds, an old red barn, a big, new red barn with a complicated hex sign painted on the side, a smaller metal barn, a state-of-the-art greenhouse, chicken coops, pens for livestock and the petting zoo, a stable, a pond... It looked like a picture postcard, or a six-year-old's idea of heaven. Ok, both. Just shabby enough not to qualify for a Thomas Kincaid print.

Ryan turned to Esposito. "This the place? Looks like Field of Dreams."

"Yup. If you build it they will come."

"No shit." They climbed out of the car, stretching and breathing sweet air tinged with just the faintest hint of barnyard manure. A tall, blondish man came out of the house, accompanied by a couple of wagging mutts who each barked once then shut up on his command.

Rick patted Kate's hand. "We're here." She was out for the count. He smiled. "Beckett. Wake up."

Kate's voice was almost childlike. "I have to pee." She came around slowly, then looked around, trying to orient herself. Jackson Hunt had climbed out of the car and was petting the larger dog, some kind of gray pibble mix that looked like a coiled steel spring, ears laid back, its tail wagging joyously against the grass. The other dog was lying on its back in the petunia bed, Ryan rubbing its tummy with one hand while trying to keep his hippie wig straight with the other.

Kate yawned, then their location caught her attention. "Are we buying a Christmas tree?"

"Not exactly," Castle said. He was grinning from ear to ear.

She climbed out of the van, followed by Castle, and said, "We've been here before. Hey, I remember you. You're Matt, right?" Matt had helped them find their Christmas trees the two holidays they'd been officially together: a big one for the loft's great room, and a tiny one for Alexis' room. In 2013 Castle had insisted on also getting a little one for Kate's apartment, so it would smell like Christmas whenever she stopped in, which wasn't so often by that time.

Matt was about Rick's age, with a sharp profile and broad smile. He wore overalls and at first glance seemed like a typical farmer, but Kate noticed he wore an adapted shoulder holster under his overalls, probably for a .38. He shook hands all around, Castle last.

"Glad you all made it up in one piece," he smiled. "Any trouble, gentlemen?" His friendly glance sparked on Beckett's goatee.

She was still sort of groggy from her nap and had forgotten she was disguised as a male. She smiled at Matt, then blinked around at the farm in the golden light of summer solstice afternoon. It looked completely different from winter, when it had been covered in snow, the orchards and maple trees stark and gray.

"No, no trouble," said Hunt. And then to Rick, "So, you want to show us your little bunker?"

"Bunker?" Kate wrinkled her brow.

"Not exactly." Castle looked at Matt anxiously. "So you've checked it over thoroughly."

Matt spread large hands in a half-shrug. "Nobody's touched it."

"Good. We'll have these guys check it out, just in case." Kate found Castle's left arm, solid and strong, around her waist. It was wonderful. The scabs had sloughed off, leaving fresh pink skin that puckered a bit at the edges, but no longer hurt. She caressed the back of his forearm without evening thinking about it.

Kate said, "Touched what? Why are we here?" Honestly, in her post-nap fog, she didn't much care. The farm was a beautiful place and she hadn't been out of the city since Rick's crash.

Castle said, "We didn't just buy the trees."

"Wait. What?"

Matt chuckled. "He bought the farm."

_"When?" _She found herself irritated. Why hadn't he told her? He could be so impulsive...

Castle looked around at the surrounding farmland and low hills, spreading up into conifers. "About ten years ago? Twelve. It's in the prenup. Page 15 of the holdings list. 500 acres agricultural land, upstate New York. Mostly undeveloped. "

"I didn't even read the prenup. I'm not marrying you for your stuff."

"I didn't think you would, Kate. I was holding out because I wanted..."

Esposito finished for him "...to hide his porn stash."

This from Hunt, Beckett, Ryan, and Matt:_ "What?" _

Castle laughed. "You know. 'If I die, get rid of my porn stash'. Espo and I settled that a couple years ago." They fistbumped.

Matt said, "I thought that was in our contract somewhere, but," he gestured to Esposito, "Go to town on it." He turned to Rick. "Oh, wait, you're not dead yet."

Ryan said to Esposito, "You never offered to destroy my porn stash."

"You never asked, bro. You don't even need to ask."

Ryan nodded, mollified. "True." They fist-bumped too, then snapped their fingers twice and popped elbows.

Matt just smirked at them. "Stylish."

Esposito shoved his chin out and strutted a little. "You know it."

They came to the barn, and Castle keyed in a combination on the big double door. It rolled open slowly, and Kate felt a faint whoosh of air, cooler than the warm, humid afternoon. She wanted to go inside right away and get out of the heat. Hunt beamed at his son, impressed. "Climate controlled?"

"Archival."

Hunt, Ryan, and Esposito went in first, Hunt switching on the interior lights. They were armed, and they fanned out, exploring through stacks of crates, up stairs, into side rooms, focusing on the task at hand.

Ryan sounded disappointed. "I don't see any porn..."

Rick held Kate back. "If there's anyone or anything in there I don't know about... I don't want you to see it," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"If... well, 3XK left Kayla in the basement at the Old Haunt, it's possible he might have hidden one of the girls here, as well."

Kate's eyes went wide. "Why wasn't I in the loop about this?"

"Because it's probably nothing. Gates knows we're here and that we're out of jurisdiction. This is officially a fun excursion to buy strawberries and blow off some steam, but she'll bring in the FBI if we raise a flag. Now, Matt hasn't seen anything unusual, and I trust him," he glanced at Matt, who doffed his cap and bowed with a grin, "But... I want you to be safe."

Kate scowled at him. "Castle, don't be ridiculous."

Castle said, "Hey, Matt, would it be possible for you to bring out some lemonade or something?"

Matt nodded. "Cherry lemonade ok?"

Kate suddenly remembered that she needed to pee. And her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. And she was hungry. She felt so... odd.

She followed Matt. "Ok if I use your facilities? We were on the road forever." In truth it had been about an hour, with barely any traffic. But she wasn't feeling too well.

"Sure," he pointed to a door on the side of the farm stand building, which was marked with a moon. "Just make sure it's latched when you leave. Sometimes the raccoons break in and wash their food in the toilet."

"Right." Kate used the restroom (which was surprisingly nice, considering the raccoon warning) and laughed at her own reflection, having forgotten that she was still wearing a beard. When she stepped out, Castle was there waiting for her, holding a tall plastic cup of cherry lemonade.

"Easy ice," he said. "No brainfreeze."

"Thanks." She took a long quaff, then pointed off toward the barn. "Seriously, Castle. What's with the bunker?"

He hesitated, gazing anxiously at the open doorway. Ryan appeared and waved an arm. "All clear. This is amazing!"

"Come and see my dowry," he grinned. He took her arm and led her back to the barn at a leisurely pace, Kate staring at him as if he were from another planet.

"Dowry?"

He hesitated. Was he embarrassed? "You know that scene in Silence of the Lambs where Clarice is going through the killer's storage unit and it's filthy and crammed with disgusting things, and it's dark, and the music wells up and you just know something horrible is going to happen?"

Kate stopped and nodded, a creeping dread overtaking her. "Yeah. The head."

Castle whispered, "I've never seen the head."

Baffled, Kate said, "Okaaaay."

"I close my eyes. I've seen the movie three times, and I just can't look. It's probably not even that bad..."

"Actually, it is kind of awful." Kate stopped and looked up at him. "Really? But you've seen so many dead people. You love zombie movies, for God's sake."

Rick shrugged, and in her mind, he suddenly looked like a little boy with a bad buzz cut. Except he didn't have a skinny neck and great big ears like so many little boys do. "I don't know. It just gets me. So anyway, after I saw the movie I decided I wanted to store my stuff someplace really nice where I don't have to pile it up willy-nilly and wig out about spiders."

Kate smiled appreciatively about that, then shuddered, thinking about the black widows in the bat tunnel. None of them had bitten her but... she knew they were still there. Waiting.

They stepped inside, and as Kate's eyes adjusted to the softer artificial light, they grew big as saucers. "Oh, my God. Castle, it's... just incredible. All this just for storage?"

"It's climate controlled, too, and it's been swept for bugs. Of every kind."

"I was wondering how you keep the loft so nice. I feel like every time I turn around, you're buying something." She was turning around now, surveying the building's interior with a look of delighted wonder.

"Oh, I buy a lot of things. But I get rid of stuff, too. I'm no hoarder. I'm more of a …" he paused at the doorway. He punched a button and closed the door behind them.

She was looking at a literal wall of action figures and toys, alphabetized by theme. "Collector," she said, silently thanking the Gods there was no My Little Pony amongst them.

"More like curator."

Esposito had found Rick's jukebox and chose a series of songs. He started out with _"Low Rider"_. The next song in the queue was _"Dancing in the Streets"_ then, just to bug everyone, _"Feelings"_.

Ryan grinned over at Castle from a red-vinyl-and-chrome dinette set, and saluted him with a Creamsicle he'd filched from the deep freezer. "You have all the things, man."

First and foremost, smack in the middle of the 4000 square foot, two-story barn, loomed a five-meter-long, bird-like space ship made out of Legos. Kate breathed, "Oh, she's a beauty. Do the lights work?"

"Lights? Haha!" Castle picked up a remote, hit a button. Not just the running lights, but the little engine turned, emitting a yellow glow out the back. Kate clasped her hands in delight.

"Not the Nebula Nine, but she's still pretty cool, Castle."

Jackson said, "That's pretty awesome, kid."

"I know, right?"

There was a small antique fire engine, in perfect condition. There was a cream-colored Stutz bearcat and a tiny little Fiat (Kate wondered if there was even room for Rick to sit in it).

"Castle, is that a Tesla coil?" She pointed at a hulking shape in one corner.

"Yeah, isn't it great? I built it from a kit. Fried my eyebrows off the first time I plugged it in," he giggled.

There were crates, all carefully marked and labeled as to contents and year, stacked neatly on steel-wire shelves, rather than atop one another. She read aloud as they moved through the stacks.

_ "Christmas decorations 1998"_

_ "Antique cameras to 1950"_

_ "Vintage cameras 1951-2010"_

_ "Camping gear" _(four crates and a duffel)

_ "Drag supplies..." "**Drag supplies**?" _She arched an eyebrow at him.

He blushed, "It's useful sometimes," and tugged gently at her beard. "Remember Claire Sainte Victoire?"

"I see your point," she grinned, then looked at him skeptically. "But we should talk about this further..."

"Nothing more to say," he blushed a deeper red.

_ "Cosplay, 1 of 33: Stormtrooper armor"_

_ "Halloween 2011" _

_ "Meredith's stuff she never comes back for..."_

_ "Remainder Castle books"_ Here Rick shrugged sadly. "Mostly '_Hell Hath No Fury_'."

_ "Comics, Marvel, #1 of 23"_

_ "Comics, DC, #1 of 14"_

_ "Roof Furnishings Summer 2003 Gatsby Party"_

_ "Board Games"_

_ "Childhood Christmas Decorations"_

_ "Skiing Stuff" _

_ "Alexis Clothes 1994-1999"_

_ "Porn Videos. Do NOT OPEN"_

Kate grinned. "I dunno, any pirate stuff in there?"

"Pirate stuff?" he squeaked. "No, that's in the "Pirate Stuff" crates. He gestured: three crates of pirate stuff! He whispered into Beckett's ear, "If I have any swashbuckling pirate porn with flashing swords, hot wenches and lustful mermaids... I won't divulge that information without being forced to walk the plank." A slow smile crept across his face, and Beckett blushed. She had not yet told him much about that thing she had about pirates. She wondered if she could get him to dress up as Hook for Halloween... and if so, if she'd actually let him come out of the bedroom for the duration of the party.

There was a partially-restored carousel, a green-screen setup, a door marked "Dark Room, Knock before Entering" and an enclosure splattered with airbrush paint.

Castle paused at a marble statue of a weeping angel. "Funny, I don't remember buying that..." He shrugged and continued the tour.

There was a blue English police box from the 1960s, but the door was stuck so they couldn't see inside. There was an immense red enamel tool box and a welding setup next to a workbench. Hanging from one wall was a huge clock face that might have been from a movie he'd loved as a kid. Richard Castle had a huge dragon puppet hanging from the ceiling, a rusted Civil War cannon and small pile of cannon balls, a drum set, a tuba, and a unicycle.

"Can you actually ride it?"

"Sure, once my leg heals up," he grinned. He had a giant clockwork tiger that could actually walk in a slow arthritic shuffle. It also roared and purred. He had a taxidermied pangolin; a piece of jet engine, a rattan Morticia Addams chair; about 30 red Chinese lanterns with gold tassels, and a paper-maché statue of Ganesh the Hindu elephant-headed god of removed obstacles. He had a big-breasted ship's figurehead that looked like Bernadette Peters, a Bally Fireball pinball machine, a pair of stilts, and a huge wooden Maori mask with conch seashells for eyes. There was a lovely Japanese screen inlaid with mother of pearl geishas and butterflies. He had a wooden crate with _"Ark of Covenant Do Not Open"_ stenciled on it. It actually had no top, and contained an immense collection of antique doorknobs and keys, plus something jutted out of it that might have been a parrot cage.

He even had a box marked "Halloween, general. Fake Body Parts in Jars. Remain calm."

The entire upstairs mezzanine was comprised of shelves, and those shelves held thousands of books. "How many?" Kate breathed.

"They're cataloged. 3,520. Some of them are pretty rare."

Jackson was sitting in the Bearcat, his hands on the steering wheel, smiling. "You have any weapons other than the cannon, Mr. Castle?"

Rick shook his head. "All back at the loft. They're not really my thing, except for Vera, and she's just a prop." He gestured at a huge, futuristic grey metal rifle, hung on a wall rack along with a broom, a 5-foot-long Claymore sword, and a bagpipe.

Jackson shook his head in mock disgust, and scoffed. "Ray guns..." He also noticed there was a large axe mounted on a bracket by the door. The axe had a label: _"In Case of Zombies or Vengeful Christmas Trees, Break Glass." 'Break Glass' was lined out: 'Note, glass is already broken'."_ He sighed, thinking, _"My offspring is a complete goofball."_ But he cast a proud glance at his son. Rick might have killed in self-defense, and he had a wide streak of lunacy, but he was no psychopath.

Favoring his sore ankle, Rick slowly led Kate up the steel stairs to the mezzanine. She surveyed the books, some of them very old, some of them very large, almost all of them behind glass drop-down doors. She breathed the faint dusty-vanilla-leather scent of wisdom and adventure. She sneezed. "Man, my nose has been so stuffy since the wedding."

Rick said, "Maybe it was the bat-shit." He'd been extraordinarily lucky not to get a lung infection. Bat caves have some pretty scary microbes, no matter how cute the bats are. The paramedics had dosed him up with antibiotics the minute they hooked him to the bag because of his hand. He'd had a little digestive trouble from that, but nothing that yogurt couldn't cure.

They poked around together for a while, occasionally murmuring over a treasure. Kate said, "How often do you come here?"

"Usually when you're doing paperwork, if I'm not writing or if I'm feeling uninspired. Always something to get the gears working again."

"This explains the farmer's market veggies on odd days of the week."

He nodded. "It's almost like you're a detective or something."

Rick was gazing with love at a box of True Detective magazines, each one wrapped in its individual plastic bag.

Kate stopped at a box marked, "Alexis, baby stuff."

She looked at Rick curiously. "What's in there?

"Mostly a huge amount of plastic that I should probably toss out due to off-gassing and materials fatigue." He opened it up. There was a wooden duck on a long handle that had rubber feet on a wheel. He pushed it along, its feet slapping on the mezzanine's finished plywood floor, and every four steps or so, the toy peeped raspily, like an adolescent duck that hadn't found its quack yet. For some reason Kate found it hilarious, and her laughter rang to the ceiling joists.

"It's a... duck on a stick!" she hooted. Rick drove the duck around her, the tiny feet flapping as she turned, giggling. Ryan and Esposito, who had been poking through the baseball memorabilia and the vintage girlie magazines respectively, looked up and grinned then went back to their snooping. Jackson had exhausted his interest in the Bearcat and moved on to the pinball machine. Its ding-and-ping nicely complemented the jukebox. 'Feelinggggs... whoa whoa woe feeeellinnnngsss.'

Jackson said, "I shot a jukebox in Poughkeepsie just for playing that crap."

Esposito grinned evilly at him. "Well, then, choose your own damn song." Neither he nor Ryan had much idea who Jackson Hunt was, but Castle seemed to trust him. So he was one of Castle's guys.

Next Rick pulled out a handmade baby quilt in shades of blue. "My grandmother made this for me, but she and Mother weren't on speaking terms until I was about five, so I never used it. When she died it was still in with her things, and Mother saved it for Alexis."

Kate reached out for it and looked it over. It was so orderly, with dozens of little half-square triangles. The color theme was predominantly blue and white, patterned with stereotypical things like trains, planes, cowboys, rocket ships, pirates. The back had been hand-quilted with tiny hand stitches in swirls and stars. "It must have taken her months." Rick nodded. She smiled down at it, smoothing it over her arm. She felt like he was waiting for her to say something.

"So now, " he smiled, with a grand gesture at his stash of awesomeness, "My great and terrible secret has been revealed."

He looked at her expectantly, as if he was waiting for her to tell him something, and that something wasn't _"Wow, this is so cool."_ Even though it was, indeed, incredibly cool.

He tilted his head, his expression sort of pleading. Serious.

Oh. So, he was on to her.

"Castle," she began quietly. Her voice was a ragged little shudder. "I need to tell you something."

He leaned his right elbow against the mezzanine railing, then winced and took his weight off it again. "You know you can tell me anything."

She nodded. "I, um. I think I might be sick."

He smiled in tender concern, then pulled her away from the railing, guiding her to sit in a big leather-upholstered reading chair decorated like a Western saddle, embossed with swirls and flowers. It had cattle horns for feet. "Do you need some crackers?"

She was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

He paused, his mouth opening and closing. "What do _you_ mean?"

She shook her head. "I've got an appointment to see the doctor. Something's wrong."

He sat on the chair's arm and pulled her close, saying nothing, but she could feel his heart hammering in his chest. She turned to lean her head against his ribs. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Oh, Kate. Kate, no. Never worry about worrying me," he whispered. He cupped his left hand under her chin, and tugged gently at her fake goatee.

"That thing's really on there," she said.

"You'll need baby oil to remove the adhesive," he smiled faintly and half-glanced around. "Should be a barrel of it around here somewhere. Now what makes you think you're sick?"

Down on the jukebox, "_Feelings"_ switched over to "_Fortunate Son"_, followed a few minutes later by Johnny Cash's _"Folsom Prison Blues"._

"I've been so dizzy lately, and... weirdly tired. From my bones, I am just _so_ tired, like I can't sleep enough. I almost got carsick on the way here, then I just fell asleep."

"Anything else?" He was trying not to look amused.

"I was hoping it was just stress. But I'm wondering if I have … if I might have Type 2 diabetes. My mouth is dry all the time, I've been craving sweets more than usual, and I have to pee every five minutes."

He took the quilt from her and wrapped it across her shoulders. It was only a baby quilt, but she was pretty narrow. He said, "I'm wondering if your birth control shot didn't wear off a little earlier than the doctor expected."

Kate's eyes went wide. Of course that's one of those worries that nags constantly at the back of every fertile woman's mind, but... "That can't be right. I got the booster in... She pulled out her phone and looked through her calendar. "Uh... wait. I had a reminder to get one in March..."

Castle's eyes crinkled with a smile as she paged through the calendar on her phone. She ran a search. "I _thought_ I put a reminder in. Didn't I get one before we went to..." she paused, horrified. "Oh, my God. The shot probably wore off three months ago. That explains..."

Her hazel eyes were huge, and spilling tears. "Oh, Castle, I'm so sorry." She looked up from her calendar. "This... it really couldn't have come at a worse time."

He pulled her out of the chair seat, swung her around so she stood between his legs, held her close, rocking her, but he was the one shaking now. "There's no wrong time for us."

"So you're ok with this?" Her voice was small against his shoulder. "Everything's been so hard for you, it doesn't seem fair..."

He was quiet for a long moment. "I thought you knew," he choked back a sob. "I thought you were trying to hide it from me."

"Why wouldn't I tell you?"

"Because we've talked about it in the abstract a few times, but that's before you knew there were psychopaths in my gene pool."

She backed away a little, scrutinizing him, and gritted, "You think I'd end our pregnancy without even telling you?" She was offended. He was sorry. But he was also glad that she was offended, because he was so glad to be wrong.

"Meredith almost did. I still have nightmares about it. And you haven't always been... you know. You're not an open book sometimes."

"Oh, Babe..." She held him tightly. "Well, I'm not Meredith."

"You would have been completely within your rights..."

"Rick." She took his face between her hands. "This is you and me."

His voice shook. "And baby?"

She smiled and splayed a hand across her abdomen, then patted it. "Makes three."

They kissed, and kissed again, and he slid his bottom back into the huge horn-and-leather chair, pulling her down into his lap with a squeal and a giggle. "I've never kissed anyone with a beard before," he grinned. "Although there was that one girl I met at the circus..."

"I don't wanna know," she chuckled. She laid her head on his shoulder again. It was just so damn... restful there. "Why did we come here? So you could show me baby blankets and tell me we're pregnant?"

"No, I was just guessing. We still don't know for sure. And if you're not pregnant, if you're sick– we'll deal with it together. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay." They cuddled in silence for a few precious minutes longer. He pulled her cap off, and her hair tumbled down from a twist. He stroked it and smoothed it between his fingers. "I was really worried about the possibility of a kidnapped girl being here, but I guess Tyson and Nieman didn't find everything about me after all, including the farm. I've hidden some of my possessions in shadow corporations, just like my brother did."

She stiffened a little. "Really?"

"Yeah, only my lawyer knows where they are. So if something happens to me, Kate, and you need to run, to protect our family – he'll lay that out for you. There's a stash of money in an offshore account, there's money sandwiched into the upholstery on our head board, and there's also cash here."

"Is it in the banana stand?" she joked.

"Nope. In the carousel. The squirrel has $5,000 in cash hidden beneath its saddle."

"You're a nut."

"No. I am a squirrel. And I have many attractive and useful nuts."

"I like your nuts," she grinned.

"Remind me to test your devotion to those nuts when we get home." He patted her bottom and raised her up to straddle his lap. He whispered, "Sometimes pregnant women get extremely horny. Is that your experience?"

Her face colored. "I didn't want to be too demanding, but..."

He kissed her again then rubbed his own chin. "You're gonna give me stubble rash."

* * *

They loaded up the van with a few things necessary for Rick's project: a green screen; a theatrical makeup kit; a small, silver-cased digital camera with a video card. He also grabbed a couple of old boxes of his childhood school records, an old VCR, and a couple of VHS cassette tapes. And they added something for Kate's hypothetical project: a box marked "Pregnancy books and baby gear." And an over-sized rocker-glider and ottoman that Rick had used for bottle-feeding Alexis.

Responding to sidelong glances from Esposito and Ryan, he said, "Don't jump to any conclusions. We want to get it refurbished just in case. My guy has a three-month lead time."

"You better not be holding out on us," Ryan bristled.

"You'll be among the first to know," Kate reassured him. She glanced over at Esposito and Hunt. "All three of you. But we don't even know yet."

They finished loading at about 6:30 to find delectable food smells luring them in from the farmhouse kitchen. Matt invited them for dinner: grilled chicken, salad, smashed potatoes with fresh herb butter on the side, and fresh cherry pie. Kate had to talk herself out of eating seconds; she didn't want to get sick on the way home in the car.

Kate looked around the kitchen, which was painted in a sunny yellow. The walls were mostly taken up with warm cherry cabinetry, but the open areas were hung with children's paintings of fruits and vegetables, nicely framed. "This place is so... homey!"

Matt smiled, his crystal-blue eyes twinkling. "Thanks. That's my wife's touch."

Kate was hesitant to ask. "Do you live here alone now?"

He shook his head. "No, my mom, wife and daughters are down at Disney World." He pulled out his phone and showed Rick a snap of his gorgeous, curly-haired wife, who looked Afro-Cuban, and their two little girls with their mops of beige curls.

"They get prettier every year," Rick smiled.

Matt continued. "Her folks live in Orlando. When I heard about Rick's accident I decided things sounded weird enough that they should get out of Dodge for a while."

It occurred to Ryan that most farmers can barely afford their own shoes, let alone trips to Disney World. He was puzzling it out and finally came up with, "Have you lived here all your life?"

"Most of it," Matt said. "I did a tour in Iraq before my dad died. Came back home to help my folks run the farm. Mostly into the ground," he shrugged sheepishly. He and Esposito exchanged a glance; they were already acquainted with one another from Esposito's investigation of Rick's storage place, and had sized one another up as good people.

Rick said, "I came here a few times for 'farm camp' when I was a kid, so Matt and I became friends. Later on I brought Alexis up for blueberries, and then cut-your-own Christmas trees. Matt and I got to talking after his discharge."

"My folks were having trouble holding on to the farm, selling off pieces of it. They'd been trying to work with the Agricultural Land Trustees but the process was so slow, and we were starting to get pesticide runoff from our upstream neighbors' lawns." His face wrinkled in distaste.

Castle said, "I love this farm, and I always needed a secret Place For My Stuff."

"So this is your bat-cave," said Esposito.

Rick made a face. "I think I've completely crossed the concept of 'bat-cave' off my bucket list." He chuckled uneasily and Kate took his hand.

Matt cocked an eyebrow at him.

Rick said, "Long story." He told part of it. He left out the bit with the demon. 

* * *

After dinner and coffee (Kate just had water, engendering an amused glance from Ryan), Matt brought them out to the corral with a basket of kitchen scraps for the animals. The chickens were already cooped up for the night. There were two horses, a donkey, a couple of pot-bellied pigs, four freakishly cute goats, and a llama. Rick whistled, and the taller horse, an elderly Appaloosa, approached them. He gleamed like a pearl in the twilight.

"Hey Fred." The horse reached his head over the fence top, and Rick massaged his face above and between the eyes. Kate offered the horse a carrot nub that Matt had dispensed for the occasion. Fred munched on it while Rick stroked his mighty neck.

Kate smiled, "You know each other."

Rick nodded. "He's a retired police horse."

A slow, glowing smile spread across Kate's face. "From your famous midnight ride?"

"It was more like 10:30 pm. I figured if he was going to be put out to pasture, mine was as good as any."

Esposito said, "What midnight ride?" But he was smiling. He was actually a good rider, and he loved horses. "Who do you think you are, Paul Revere?"

Ryan grinned. "Man, you really should read Castle's file someday. Hey, is that a llama?"

They hung out with Matt and the animals a little longer, then headed back to Manhattan. Castle sat in the back seat with Beckett this time, and she was asleep again soon after the SUV left the dirt road for pavement.


	20. Chapter 20

_Minor edits to refresh on this very fine web site **  
**_**Too Soon Chapter 20 – Raised By Wolves**

_Tonight there's fallen angels and they're waiting for us down in the street  
Tonight there's calling strangers, hear them crying in defeat.  
Let them go, let them go, let them go do their dances of the dead (let 'em go right ahead)  
You just dry your eyes girl, and c'mon c'mon c'mon let's go to bed, baby, baby, baby_

_I swear I'll drive all night just to buy you some shoes_  
_And to taste your tender charms_  
_And I just wanna sleep tonight again in your arms_

_**Bruce Springsteen – Drive All Night**_

* * *

They drove back into Manhattan at around 8:30 pm. Kate was asleep on Rick's shoulder again, and he wished he could just carry her in and lay her on the bed. But she awoke, looked out the window at their dingy motel, and sighed. "I wish we could go home."

Hunt said, "Let's find you someplace better to stay tonight." Rick went into the hotel room, threw all their stuff willy-nilly into suitcases, and stopped by the desk to drop off the keys.

Travis, the pasty-faced, greasy clerk with the "Born 2 Raze Hell!" tattoo on his neck, was absorbed in level 23 of Sugar Rush on his phone, and didn't even glance up at Castle. The battered-looking gimp with the skinny shemale boyfriend would be no great loss even though they'd paid cash.

Travis pointed absently at the sign, just in case the gimp couldn't read. "No refunds."

"I don't want a refund. I don't even want a receipt. But if I find so much as one bedbug in my luggage I will come back and burn this place to the ground," Castle said.

Travis glanced up and drawled, "Need a match?"

Castle stalked out.

The clerk called out when he thought the departing gimp was safely out of range. "Yeah, I'll give you a match. Your face and a monkey's ass!" Travis chuckled to himself. In his own circle of friends, he was considered quite a wit. Castle heard him and pulled up short, smiling grimly to himself.

Travis felt a shadow pass over him, and looked back up to see that same man with the fancy arm cast, buzz cut and broken nose looming over him. The man took a small packet of three matches out of his pocket and dropped them, unlit, one-by-one, on the counter, then stalked out again without a word. But his menacing glare gave Travis nightmares for a week.

"Uh, have a nice day!" the clerk stammered.

"You too, Travis." It occurred to Rick that his own hearing was almost back to normal. This cheered him up a bit.

* * *

Rick tended to be recognized at the fancier hotels in Manhattan, and technically, he was still "missing and presumed dead," so Jackson flagged their night-shift patrol guard, who suggested they caravan to the Congenial Inn over by JFK Airport. Rick paid cash for separate rooms for his dad, their guard (because what, they could see him and Kate being attacked on the 23rd floor from the patrol car?) and booked the bridal suite for himself and his lovely wife, who currently looked like a refugee from a Nirvana concert in her baggy workman's clothes, a beanie, and a ratty little beard.

Unloading the van, Jackson said, "You taking the rocker upstairs?" He'd pulled it out and set it on the sidewalk to access the items Rick wanted to bring up. The chair's seat glided back and forth gently in its frame as if rocked by an invisible ghost. Rick smiled, remembering how Alexis used to love sitting in it, even as an older kid. His decorator had made him put it in storage because it was a 'cheap-looking old thing with ugly upholstery.' Rick probably shouldn't have slept with that woman. She was kind of a snob, although she'd had a spectacular... never mind...

Then he sighed. "Put it back in the van, I guess." He'd been stupid to bring it along since they had no safe home to go to, and the potential baby wasn't even going to need said rocker for another eight months. (At least he hoped not.)

Up on the 23rd floor, Rick tipped the bellboy, who had pushed the cart up with their odd assortment of boxes and the cop's surprisingly huge suitcase. When the busboy left to deliver the suitcase next door, Rick glanced around and said, "I feel sorry for the bride who considers this a luxury suite."

The whole room was decorated in shades of grayish-brown to brownish-gray, with an abstract print on the wall that resembled spilled oatmeal with cranberry bits. Kate flopped down on the bedspread and closed her eyes. The room was spinning a little. It might have been the artwork.

She said, "I'm so tired I could sleep in a tiger cage at the Bronx Zoo."

"It wouldn't be the first time we've slept with tigers. Let's consider that an option."

Castle smiled down at her then went into the bathroom to set up their toiletries in the hope of cleaning up and taking a hot shower. He realized with regret that when they'd applied the fake beard that morning, he'd just assumed she'd have an oily makeup remover, but those little towelettes she used were 'oil free'. Crap. So much for the barrel of baby oil.

He dialed Jackson Hunt's room.

"Yeah."

"Uh, Dad?"

There was a little pause. "Yeah."

"Uh. Look, I don't want to leave Kate, and, well, this is kind of personal, I don't want to ask the bodyguards, and it feels weird calling the concierge..."

"What, are you out of rubbers? I might have one in my p-"

"No! No. No." Rick put a hand over his eyes. "But I do need a drugstore run."

"What for?"

"Um, got paper?"

Sigh. "Yeah."

Rick's voice cracked. "A bottle of baby oil, a pregnancy test, and some saltines."

Rick heard Jackson Hunt laughing, not only over the phone, but through the wall into the next room. He heard Hunt laughing as his door slammed, shaking the hollow walls, and as he stalked down the hall to the elevator. Over the phone, Hunt said, "Want me to pick up some cigars, too?"

"Oh, GOD, NO!" Rick said, almost retching. "No tobacco. But some milk might be nice. And, um, if they have ginger tea..."

"Oh, for God's sake, Richard, women have been doin' this for thousands of years without ginger tea."

"Well technically dad, they've also been doing it for hundreds of years _with_ ginger tea."

"Whatever." The elevator dinged, and Hunt hung up.

* * *

A half hour later, Hunt stepped out of the the nearest all-night pharmacy and returned to the van. He unlocked the door, slipped into the seat, and was about to fasten the seat belt when he noticed the rocker moving back and forth behind him. There were two things Jackson Hunt knew: the rocker had something of a hair trigger. The other thing that he knew was that the van had very, very good shocks, and it hadn't moved an inch.

He ducked as the bullet from the back flew past him, shattering into the dashboard. He was out of the seat in a fraction of a second, gun drawn, and before his assailant could even exit from the back, Hunt was on him. This man was big, about his height, and strong. A good fighter, his face hidden even in this warm night by a balaclava. He seemed to be about Hunt's age, and his brown eyes glared, chilling and merciless. They went at it in the parking lot, and for a moment, Jackson Hunt was afraid he wouldn't have time to warn Rick, if indeed it was Rick the man was after. The attacker had Hunt down on the ground, on his back, a gun in his face, and said, "Michael's waiting for you. He said he'd see you in hell."

That apparently was enough for the DrugSmart Late Shift Pharmacy Manager, Al. He had, without their noticing, seen the fight and stepped out into the parking lot with his trusty (though never actually fired) 12-gauge shotgun. He selected the Bad Guy – at least he hoped it was the Bad Guy since he seemed to be winning – and blew him away. The assailant flopped down, twitching and gurgling, peed himself, and lay still. It was not at all like in the movies.

Hunt lay back on the ground, panting. "Thanks, man."

The manager gave him a hand up. Hunt dusted himself off, grinning wryly. "Asphalt is so much harder than it used to be." He heard approaching sirens.

"I dialed 911," the manager said. He was a big African American man, possibly a former linebacker, now balding and paunchy. He was breathing hard too. A small crowd was gathering, both from the street and inside the store.

A young slacker in an Anarchy T-shirt bent over the dead assailant and before Hunt could say "Don't...", the kid had removed the balaclava. He looked from the dead man, white-haired and bearded, to Hunt and then back again.

"What, are you dudes like, clones or somethin'?"

Al the Manager looked at the dead man and the live man, and said, "Get out. That your bro? Your momma teach you to fight in parking lots?"

Jackson Hunt shrugged. "Raised by wolves, I guess."

He was back in the van and roaring out of the parking lot before anyone even thought to move. The moment he was three blocks away, he slowed to a Law-Abiding Citizen pace that nobody would mark as unusual, then pulled into a lot full of white rental vans. He wiped it down, regretfully poured most of the baby oil around the interior, set the van on fire, and divested himself of his dark leather jacket. This revealed an eye-bleedingly ugly black bowling shirt with orange flames on the hems and going up one flank. Carrying the white bag from the pharmacy, he walked away down the dark mixed-use street and hotwired a '70 Pontiac GTO that had obviously been stolen so many times nobody bothered to lock it anymore. It smelled like vomit, but that was pretty much always the case with Goats, so that was all right.

Back at the pharmacy, Al dropped the shotgun and gripped his upper left arm. "Oh, shit," he said. "Shit, shit..." He sank to his knees.

The Anarchy Kid ran into the pharmacy, crying. "Shit!" he hollered. "That guy's havin' a fuckin' heart attack!" He ran back to the pharmacist who assumed he was there to rob the place. The pharmacist rolled down the security door and hit the panic button. The store's alarm went off, with lights flashing and a blaring klaxon.

The Kid cast around desperately, and an old lady tapped him on the shoulder, screeching into his ear. "Sweetheart, I think you need the defib box." She pointed with an arthritic finger at the wall-mounted unit by the drinking fountain (I know. Stupid, right?)

The Kid grabbed the box and ran for the parking lot. The old lady hobbled up to the pharmacy gate and banged on it with her cane. "What are you doing in there, pissing yourself?"

* * *

Hunt hurried back to the hotel, phoning Rick on the way. "Hey. We've been compromised. Get Kate down to the lobby with your cop and stay there in plain sight. Leave anything non-essential, but bring your gun."

Hunt was proud to notice Rick's steady voice. "See you there. Be careful, Dad."

Hunt hesitated. "You too, son."

They hung up, and Rick awakened Kate, who'd fallen asleep, little beard and all. She looked so pale. She sat up and said, "What is it?" Then her color changed to green and she ran to the bathroom.

"You just do that, I'll pack us up. We gotta go."

Between retches, Kate said, "What happened?"

He called the cop next door, but he didn't answer. "Shit." He banged on the wall, hoping to awaken him. Then a sleepy voice picked up. "Crap. Sorry, Mr. Castle."

"We have to move out. Someone's tailed us." Rick dialed his mother's burner phone. She was still up and perky, of course. "Mother, it's me."

"Richard, Darling!"

"Someone's on our tail. Is Alexis with you?"

"We were just playing cards with James. I have to say, it's quite difficult keeping oneself entertained when..."

"I want you to call Esposito and have him come watch over you, ok? I have to go." He hesitated. Never let the chance go by. "Love you, Mother. Alexis too. And we're okay, at least for now." He hung up and ran to the bathroom.

Poor Kate was hugging the toilet. She said ruefully, "That pie was better going down."

"Beckett. I know it's hard..."

"No, Castle, you don't!" she snapped.

"Someone tailed us. I think they attacked my dad."

The adrenaline of the moment seemed to clear her head. She stood shakily, flushed, washed her hands quickly and rinsed her mouth. "Let's go." She stared at her bearded self in the mirror and whimpered in frustration.

They took only a few things: Rick's file from the Head Start preschool, the old VHS tape, the little silver bag, the toiletry bag with toothbrushes and Rick's meds. Taking a look at Kate's grey complexion, Rick also swiped a plastic trash bucket. That came in handy when Kate vomited in the elevator. Rick and the cop looked at her sympathetically as the smell of half-digested cherry pie steamed up from the receptacle. She brightened after that. "I feel a bit better now." The smell was horrific. Rick stifled a gag. The cop apparently had no sense of smell; it didn't phase him.

When they got to the ground floor, they waited in the lobby as Jackson had advised, in a position that felt too open but at least wouldn't leave them cornered.

The sound of a dart gun is so very soft.

The cop staggered, grabbing at a spot on his neck. Kate pulled Rick down behind a teal sofa, and they crouched there. He could feel her shaking, her eyes darting desperately. "Stay down, Castle," she breathed.

He was suddenly seized with an overwhelming protective rage. He jumped back up and drew his gun with a roar, only to be met by his father in a ridiculous black bowling shirt embellished with stylized orange flames. Oh, and black skulls. He had a nifty little dart blowgun.

"Dad, what the hell?"

"Your cop's dirty," Hunt said. "He's no cop."

"How'd you know?"

"Well, the real cop's body in his trunk was sort of a giveaway. Then after I called you, I went up the back elevator and checked his room while you were all on your way down in the elevator. He's got surgical equipment all laid out. And jars of formaldehyde."

Kate and Rick exchanged a terrified gaze, and she handed him the bucket just in time.

The night desk clerk was hiding behind the front counter. He was fortyish, his head wrapped in a mustard-colored turban that matched his hotel-issued vest. He croaked out, "I have already called the police! I am making a citizen's arrest!"

Jackson said, "Thank you!" and shot him in the neck with another dart. He collapsed into blissful sleep. Hunt dodged behind the counter and dialed 911. In quite a convincing accent, he said, "Yes, hello, 911. We are having a bit of a problem here with a serial killer in the lobby. Yes, JFK Congenial Inn on the Nassau Expressway. Yes, My name is Ranjit Singh. Yes, a serial killer. Yes, because there is a body in the patrol car in the parking lot, and the maid found body parts in room 2314. No, I am sorry, she has fainted and also tendered her resignation. Yes, Some crazy man just darted him and drove off in a white Toyota Corolla. No, I am sorry, I did not get the license plate, my vision is somewhat blurry. In fact I think you should send an ambulance..." Hunt dropped the receiver with a thud. They could already hear the sirens approaching.

He grabbed a reasonably fresh waste bucket from under the counter, leaving behind the old one. Then he led Kate and Rick out of the hotel and they ran for an old blue bomb of a car.

Rick glanced around. "Where's the van?"

"Yeah, too bad about the rocker," Jackson said.

Rick's voice might have squeaked just a little. "My rocker?"

Hunt didn't bother responding, just opened the door, Kate and Rick slid into the back seat. "Stay low." He'd hot-wired the car, and it took a moment to get started.

The back seat was a disaster: cracked vinyl cushions, chunks of foam missing, exposed springs, and it was littered with fast food wrappers, mostly-empty oil containers, and spray paint cans. Kate wrinkled her nose. "I thought my bucket smelled bad."

They passed the patrol car on their way out of the lot. Kate noticed its trunk was wide open. "Body in there?"

Hunt nodded. "Yeah. What's left of it. I think some of the pieces were up in the room."

Kate heaved. Rick said, "I think we're gonna need a new bucket."

"His and hers?" said Jackson.

"Fuck you." But Rick had a half smile on his face.

"So. Where to?"

"Bronx zoo?" Kate muttered.

Castle patted her shoulder. "You know, this is gonna sound weird, but let's just pick up the folks and and Alexis and go back to the loft."

"FBI won't approve."

"Screw them. I've had it with the safe houses and dodging around. If 3XK's buddies wanna come get us, at least we'll see them coming," Rick said.

Kate agreed. "I'd rather be near the 12th than anywhere else."

Hunt's eyes crinkled approval. "Home advantage." He handed a plastic pharmacy bag back to Rick. "Have some ginger ale and saltines."

"I thought you were gonna get ginger _tea_."

"I'll just fashion a crude stove out of an empty pop can and boil it up on the manifold as we drive."

Rick took out his notebook. "You can do that?"

You could hear Kate's eyes rolling all the way from Rockaway Beach.


	21. Chapter 21

**TooSoon Chapter 21: Plus One**

_The look of love  
Is in your eyes  
A look your smile can't disguise  
The look of love  
It's saying so much more  
Than words could every say  
And what my heart has heard,  
Well, it takes my breath away._

_I can hardly wait to hold you  
Feel my arms around you,  
How long I have waited,  
Waited just to love you,  
Now that I have found you,  
Don't ever go, don't ever go,  
I love you so..._

_We were so in love, and high above_  
_We had a star to wish upon. wish_  
_And dreams come true, but not for me_  
_The trains and boats and planes_  
_Took you away, away from me._  
_"The Look of Love" - Burt Bacharach, 1967_  
_Soundtrack for Casino Royale_

__  
I've never even see Casino Royale. I was just looking for  
a song Martha and Jackson might have made love to in August of 1968._

* * *

**June 17, 10:30 p.m.**

"Any sign of a tail?" said Jackson. They were looking for a likely parking spot in Hell's Kitchen.

Rick glanced out the back window of the Pontiac for the 100th time. "Nothing, but there are a lot of taxis out, so it's hard to tell."

Hunt turned the GTO into an alley behind a row of restaurants, and they got out. "You two wait here," Hunt said, and went out to the street, looking for all the world like a lost tourist. Kate took her Bucket-o'-Puke and tossed it into a dumpster while Castle wiped the car for prints. It was so damn grubby that it hardly mattered, but it seemed prudent. Then he moved the driver's seat forward to make it look like a shorter person had driven it, rearranged the rear-view mirrors, and even wiped off the seat adjustment handle. Working with Beckett had taught him a lot.

Hunt hailed a cab and called for The Kids (for so he now thought of them), and they arrived unscathed at Broome Street around 10:45. Castle felt strange, entering the lobby of his home for the first time in weeks, limping and scarred. The night watchman, Jorge, recognized Kate first. "Ms. Beckett?" He looked at her closely. She looked haggard, had some sort of oily pink rash on her upper lip and chin, and wore baggy Carharts. She took off her knit cap and her hair tumbled down, then he lost all doubt when he saw her radiant smile. She was so different from the hard, sharp woman who'd swept through with a scowl and a badge six years before.

Kate smiled, hurried to Jorge and took his hand. "Jorge. It's Mrs. Castle now," she said quietly, and she gestured to Rick with a smile. Jorge stared closely at Rick with a little scowl. "I'm sorry, we were told to watch for people who look like you but aren't." Castle was still a bit bruised, the stitches removed but the scar on his right temple still livid, and his nose was not quite back to its usual self.

Jorge said, "So you are not dead after all?"

Rick said, "Thanks for your caution. Have Mother and Alexis gone up yet?"

Jorge balked, still frowning at Castle and Hunt. "Describe Miss Alexis' prom dress?"

"Strapless. Sort of a metallic teal taffeta," Castle said.

Jorge grinned. "She told me it was seafoam, but all right then." He shook hands with Rick, whose crooked smile would have settled the question three minutes earlier. "Welcome back, Mr. Castle. Your girls are upstairs already."

"Discretion, all right?"

"Absolutely, sir. We've had all kinds of press here. Miss Paula's helped me chase them off a few times."

"She can be a real goddess when she wants to be," Rick smiled. Jorge squinted at Hunt. The squint turned to a real stink-eye.

Hunt grinned. "Jackson Hunt. I'm... with them."

Jorge nodded. He prided himself on never forgetting a face. He could have sworn he'd seen this man dressed as a repairman a few times over the years, seeming to bounce from job to job – plumbing, electrical, greensman... "Have we met, sir?"

"Not formally." The elevator chimed. "If you'll excuse me..."

* * *

Rick's keys had been melted in the car fire, but Kate took hers out and was about to open the door to the loft when Martha swept it open, looking insanely radiant in a swath of turquoise and orange. Jackson just stood behind their kids and stared at her.

"There you are, Darlings, I was just about to open a bottle of something to celebrate our homecoming." Rick and Kate waited a moment, and Jackson gave them a look askance then stepped in past them.

"Well, come in!" Martha smiled, puzzled.

Rick turned to Kate with tears in his eyes, his hands on her shoulders. "I know this is silly, but I wanted to carry you over the threshold," he sighed. It was almost a whine. He looked down at the cast on his right arm, and she smiled, reaching down to pull up gently on his belt loops.

"I could carry _you, _Castle."

He considered, tilting his head with a smile, and then pressed his forehead against hers. He wanted to melt into her, even though she smelled really bad. "Beckett. I have no doubt you could, theoretically, but... maybe no heavy lifting just now."

Kate's face lit up. "You're right. With any luck I'm already carrying..." she grabbed Rick's hand and hauled him past Martha, who dodged out of the way, flummoxed.

"Well, no point in saying hello, then," Martha groused. "I'll just stand here looking beautiful."

Jackson twinkled at her. "That's not exactly a challenge."

Martha preened.

Rick paused just a moment to peck his mother on the cheek. "We'll just be a moment," he explained. Kate was rummaging in the bag Jackson had left on the kitchen counter. She found a little pink-and-blue box. Beaming, she dragged a happily acquiescent Rick through the office and bedroom, and into the bathroom. The door slammed.

Martha looked over at Jackson, who was foraging through the somewhat empty fridge. "Not exactly decorous."

"They've had a long night, and she's not feeling so well. Hey, do you still keep champagne around in case of a celebration?"

Her eyes sparkled. "You remember that?"

"How could I forget? You're a one-woman party."

"It's in the wine cooler, not the food fridge. Bottom shelf on the right," she smiled, and started to pull out glasses.

Jackson spun and shut the fridge door with a backward thrust of his shoulder blades, the motion so like their son's that it took Martha's breath away. He bent to the smaller fridge and found the bubbly. "Ice bucket?"

Martha produced it, suddenly feeling herself all aflutter, and let him hold it while she dispensed the ice.

Jackson reached into the bag on the counter, pulled out a six-pack of ginger ale, and set that on the counter too. "Just in case," he said.

Martha thought back on Kate's pink-and-blue box and gasped, wide-eyed. "Oh, my God. Do you think...?"

"I won't know until you do," Jackson said. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, just looking at her. She felt a little shy suddenly, and began bustling around. "I'm sorry, there's not much in the way of snacks around. You must all be hungry."

"Empty, at least," he smiled. He gave her a rundown on the evening, leaving out the part about the drug store parking lot shootout and car theft, because... really did she need to know? "...So either Kate has the flu, or you're going to be a grandma again."

On arriving that evening, Martha, Jim, and Alexis had opened all the windows to bring some fresh air into the loft. It had been built in the 1800s and remodeled many times for different purposes. While these weren't the original windows, Rick hated the feel of a sealed building with canned air. He'd argued endlessly with Gina, Martha, and the architect about it. They maintained a sealed building is quieter and has slightly more efficient use of energy, even if the air feels flat and stale. Rick insisted that a) he wanted to be able to open the windows if there was a power outage or fire and b) he was the one writing the checks.

Finally they'd compromised on double-paned picture windows, with the smaller ones and even the skylight having double-paned casements to open and close. And it was a good choice, with the faint tooting of horns and sirens, and the gentle, humid breeze of a New York summer evening wafting in. As Rick had said when they had the loft remodeled, "What's the point of living in the city if you never hear any noise?"

* * *

Jackson had Martha laughing her head off with his description of the hotel clerk and the blowgun. Over her laughter, they heard a distant whoop, and Rick's triumphant voice: "YES!" This came more through the open kitchen window than through Rick's office. A moment later Alexis came out of the upstairs bathroom, dressed for bed, a portable blow-dryer humming through her hair. "What are they _doing_ in there?" she frowned, puzzled. She caught sight of her grandfather and he noticed a moment's shy hesitation, even though they'd met more than a few times now. He'd saved her life, and looked after her dad, but they all had reasons not to trust him. He didn't want to push himself on her.

"Hello, Alexis," he smiled.

"Hey, Jackson," she said. She holstered the blow-dryer in the pocket of her robe. At least she wasn't calling him 'Mr. Hunt' anymore. She gave him a little wave, then approached him and they exchanged a brief, rather clumsy hug.

Next Jim Beckett poked his head out of the guest room. He came out in his dressing gown and pajamas, looking a bit unsettled. He wasn't much of a night owl, and moving out from the safe house had been hard, now this ruckus with Kate and Rick. "Did I hear Katie?"

Castle burst out of the bathroom in his Star Wars pajama bottoms and a T, limping as fast as his sore ankle would let him, Kate clinging to his arm. Both were freshly showered. Her hair was wrapped in a damp towel, and she wore some leggings and a ragged Nebula9 Tshirt. He was holding a little white stick, and their smiles lit up the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a plus sign."

Oh, the noise! Jim folded his daughter in his arms and kissed the top of her head. "Your mom would be so happy, KatieBug," he whispered. The other side of the family was a bit more rambunctious. Martha dug up a megaphone somewhere, and after about five minutes, the neighbors called the police. Ryan and Esposito showed up twenty minutes later and nearly knocked Castle down with a massive group hug when he flung the door open.

"Minute I drop them off I have to turn around and come back down here," Esposito griped to Alexis.

She rolled her eyes and giggled. "No rest for the brave." He puffed up and strutted a little.

"I knew it man, I knew it!" Ryan crowed. They bustled into the loft, bearing flowers and beer instead of guns and badges. Ryan handed out organic dark-chocolate cigars.

Kate sipped her ginger ale from a crystal goblet and glared at her partners. "So. There's a pool. Who won?"

"No pool," Esposito said.

"Seriously," said Castle. "There's always a pool."

"Not yet," said Ryan. "Kathy won the pool for Kate's dress being trashed before the wedding even happened. But we held off on a baby pool until you made an announcement."

The loft phone rang. Martha answered it and sang out, "Oh, thank you, Elena darling. Katherine, it's for you." She gave Kate the handset. Kate switched it to speaker.

Lanie's voice squawked, "Hey! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Hi Lanie! Tell you what?" Kate was grinning into the phone. She put it on speaker.

"You're pregnant, and you didn't even tell me first? I thought we were BFFs." She wasn't actually mad, just huffing for effect.

"I just did the test twenty minutes ago, Lanes." Kate glared around the room accusingly at her partners. "Javi?"

"Wasn't me," Esposito swore, his brown eyes wide and innocent.

"Nope, it wasn't Javi," Laney laughed. "I know LoQuatia Green in dispatch."

"LoQuatia?"

"She's aptly named. She called me and said there was a drunk and disorderly from your address, some lady screamin' 'I'm gonna be a grandma!' out an open window. She got five calls in the space of two minutes. Your neighbors are pisssssed."

Rick said, "Mother's never had any trouble projecting her voice, but I wouldn't have thought news would travel that fast."

Alexis said, "I'm donating that megaphone to charity first thing in the morning."

Lanie said, "I'm hangin' up now, I can hear y'all from Brooklyn." She wasn't actually in Brooklyn. She was in the morgue, having received the body of an older man who'd been shot dead in a pharmacy parking lot by a store manager three hours before. But she didn't want to put a damper on things. "Now pipe down." She hung up, grinning, and went back to work on the old man. He'd been in a fight with another old man. The parking lot surveillance video was really, really weird.

Everyone laughed, but for a moment, a shadow of anxiety flashed over Castle's face. Who else already knew that Kate was expecting? He and Hunt exchanged a troubled glance. _One more person to protect._ One more worry.

Ryan saw that mirror-image expression between the two men, and having five brothers and three sisters, he knew in his bones what he was seeing: father and son. Ryan took a pull off his beer and clapped Rick gently on the shoulder. "We've got your back, man," he muttered.

Castle smiled and said quietly, "I know. And I have yours." He raised his voice and looked around the room. "I hate to put the kibosh on this party, but my wife is now gestating, and needs her beauty rest."

Esposito said, "But we just got here." Ryan was already hauling him to the door, and he was only protesting in fun.

Rick picked up the megaphone. "Don't make me use this."

* * *

The Castle household settled down pretty quickly; Alexis went upstairs to her bedroom, Jim to the guest room. Castle and Beckett, who were both suddenly exhausted, stumbled back to the bathroom, and Castle made her brush her teeth for the second time since they'd returned to the loft "because your spit changes when you're pregnant and you can get cavities."

Kate scowled, foaming at the mouth. "How do you remember all this stuff?"

"Only when needed, Kate. Only when needed."

She spat into the sink and rinsed her mouth, went to leave the bathroom, stopped and peed again. "Is the whole pregnancy going to be like this?

Rick shrugged. His face said, _"Probably,"_ but his mouth said, "I don't remember."

"Eh, fuck you."

He grinned. "That's what got me into this situation in the first place."

"Us. What got us." She finished up and washed her hands. When he came to bed, she was dazed. He set his own alarm for 7 am - there was a lot to accomplish the next day - and placed a clean, full glass of water next to Kate on the nightstand. She mumbled, "Thangyoubabe" and was out.

He slipped between their very own clean, smooth sheets with a sigh, and draped his left arm over his very own wife with another sigh, and splayed a large, protective hand over her warm tummy. He rumbled happily, like a bear settling in to hibernate. When he closed his eyes, it wasn't so good. Other thoughts drifted up, bad thoughts, thoughts that hurt and scared him, but he set them aside. _"Not tonight. Not tonight. Not now. Fuck off, Mephistopheles. You can't have me. You can't have her. You can't have us."_

He spoke softly into Kate's still-damp hair. "Tonight we're here. Nothing else matters."

"Mmm," she said.

He had a powerful imagination. He let himself believe it, and drifted into exhausted, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Martha and Jackson cleaned up the kitchen, what little there was to do: recycle empty bottles and cans, load the dishwasher, wipe down the counter.

Martha looked in the bag on the counter, reached in and smiled at the ginger tea, then pulled out the video cassette, puzzled. "Oh, no," she moaned.

Jackson turned to her. "What?"

"Ugh. _This_ awful thing." The tape, still in crumbling shrink wrap, had never been watched. "Dark Queen of Palladia."

"That's a great movie. I've seen it five times."

"Really."

"All right, twice." She gazed at him reprovingly, and he caved with a charming grin. "Once, then I fast forwarded through the bad parts."

"Darling, that's all there were. Bad parts. At least as far as I know. I had a falling-out with the director and couldn't bring myself to watch it."

Jackson washed his hands and wiped them with a dish towel. "Oh, there were good parts. You in a brass bikini, raining hell on barbarian hordes?" He grinned wickedly.

"It was bronze," she smirked.

"It was a good performance. You have quite the maniacal laugh."

"Don't tempt me," Martha chuckled, then frowned a little. "I wonder what Richard wants with this."

Jackson said, "I think you know."

She bit her lip. "You think Richard and Michael wound up on the cutting room floor?"

Jackson shrugged. "I honestly don't remember seeing either of them. It's waited this long. It can wait till tomorrow." He took the video gently, and put it back in the bag. "I, uh, wonder if I could get a sleeping bag or a throw. I'll just turn in on the sofa. For, uh..."

Martha gave him a long, slow smile.

"...For the night," he finished.

"Alec," she murmured. "If that's your real name."

He nodded, his brown eyes suddenly young and bright in his lined face. "Yeah. Alexander. I wasn't lying back then. I'm not lying now."

Martha took his hand gently, assessing without comment that his knuckles were banged up, most likely from punching someone.

She purred his name again. "Alec. One place you won't be lying tonight is on the couch." She took his hand and led him to her room. The first thing he did was close the windows, because he knew from long-ago experience that Martha had quite a set of lungs on her.

The second thing he did was smile.


	22. Chapter 22

**TooSoon Chapter 22 **

**The Nickname (somewhat edited for propriety)**

_This old familiar craving_  
_ I've been here before, this way of behaving_  
_ Don't know who the hell I'm saving anymore_  
_ Let it pass let it go let it leave_  
_ From the deepest place I grieve_  
_ This time I believe_

_ And I let go [x2]_  
_ I can let go of it_  
_ Though it takes all the strength in me_  
_ And all the world can see_  
_ I'm losing such a central part of me_  
_ I can let go of it_  
_ You know I mean it_  
_ You know that I mean it_  
_ I recognize how much I've lost_  
_ But I cannot face the cost_  
_ 'Cause I love to be loved_

_ Yes I love to be loved_  
_ I love to be loved - Peter Gabriel_

* * *

**June 18, 5 a.m. **

The press got wind. Maybe it was LoQuatia. Maybe it was someone from the 12th talking at Remy's. Anyway, the news that Richard Castle had survived his car crash – "_or was it an alien abduction?"_ \- lit up the internet, and then TV and print. At dawn the vultures were waiting, although nobody in the Castle loft had a clue of the goings-on downstairs. Rick's burner phone did the tarantella on his bedside table just after 5:15 a.m.

He jumped and grabbed it blindly, looked at the caller ID, and groaned. "Not now, Paula." He let it go to voice mail. Then he heard the house phone ringing in the kitchen, and a distant whining noise, like an overlarge mosquito in an echo chamber. "Blah blah, bla blabla bla. Bla? Blah! Blaaaaaaah. Bla bla blah blah. Blaah? Blah. Bla blah." Beeeeeep.

No stopping Paula once she was on a mission. Castle rolled out of bed and used the bathroom, stared at his lumpy head in the mirror, and sighed. His eyes were puffy. He was glad he hadn't had any champagne last night, in deference to Kate's wrinkled little Disapproving Bunny nose.

"_We're gonna have a baby,"_ he thought. A crooked grin crept across his reflection's face. "Helllo, therrrre, Daddddyyyy," he chuckled, flexing and posing as well as he could with a bum arm. The scar over his busted hip pulled a little, but he didn't care. "Still got it." He pinched a half-inch of squishy that had returned since he was hospitalized, grimaced, and admonished himself in the mirror: "No more sympathetic pregnancies."

Carrying his phone, he walked through the bedroom. "Body drop?" Kate mumbled.

He leaned over her, brushed away soft, wavy caramel hair and kissed her temple. "Nope. Just a phone call. Sleep."

"Mhm."

He went to the kitchen, mixed up some frozen orange juice, and listened to his voice mail.

"You know, you coulda told me you were comin' outta the closet," Paula squawked. "I had to hear you're back from the morning news? Riiiiick. I know you're there. Pick up. Rick? (sigh.) Call me."

"Aw, shit," he grumbled, and dialed her. "Paula. It's Rick."

"Ohmigawwwd. The protical returns."

_Prodigal._ "I'm so sorry. This is all kind of unexpected." He filled the kettle and set it to boil.

"Kind of... Jeez, Rick, Gina's goin' around like the weight of the world's on her padded little shoulders, I don't hear from you, everyone else thinks you're dead, Black Pawn's planning a memorial tribute, and you pull this on me."

"Paula, I'm sor-"

"You are fuckin' genius. Sales are … well, screw the roof. There is no roof. We're gonna have to add on an extra floor."

"I, uh..."

"That dude Espotiso gave me your burner number when I called him a couple minutes ago."

_"You called Esposito at 5 a.m.?"_

"Where are you?"

"At the loft."

"Good! There's a shitload of reporters down there now, and a bunch of fans with balloons by the shrine area."

Rick had barely noticed the shrine area, a little pile of burned-out candles, teddy bears... he'd thought it was for a traffic accident or something. They'd come home late, they'd been in disguise, and he'd been 'missing and presumed dead' for over three weeks. So the tributes, which Gina's team collected and cleaned up regularly, donating the usable stuffed animals and flowers, hadn't been that numerous at the time, and there'd been no fans at vigil. "NO! No, I don't want them here. Look, Paula, can you call them off?"

"Why would I want to-"

"Listen. I won't go into it, but we've been on the run. There were people after us, me and Kate, my whole family. Really bad people. The FBI..."

"Are frickin' useless..."

"Oh, trust me, they aren't." Rick paused, which with Paula, was always a mistake.

"Look, Rick, I'm sure you..."

"Shut up," he barked.

"_Did you just tell me to shut up?"_ She almost laughed, disbelieving. Rick just wasn't the type. "What's got into you?"

"Something bad, Paula. Something really bad." _Something evil._ "Now you listen to me. I need you. I need you to take these assholes _off my tail_. Set up a press conference for 2:30 today at the 12th Precinct steps. I want a rep from the FBI there. Jordan Shaw, if possible."

"2:30... 12th precinct... Jordan Shaw..."

"If you can get her. And a rep from the CIA as well. I want to meet with them at 3 pm in homicide..." he was writing the story as he went along. A plan so crazy...

"Wait, you said 2:30."

"That's outside, for the press."

"Oh, gotcha.

"And..." he sighed. "And I want you to bring Meredith in. 1 p.m. I want her in a dark wig and big sunglasses. Back door entrance, I'll arrange to have someone meet her there. We wouldn't want anyone to think she's being arrested."

"Meredith-your-ex-wife-Meredith?"

"Yeah. Tell her if she doesn't show up I'll have my lawyer re-adjust her alimony so badly she'll never see another dime."

"Haha, she'll make tracks, the little bitch."

"Hey, now, she's still my daughter's mother," he warned. He opened the ginger tea box and unwrapped a bag. The dangler had a little phrase on it: _Love Conquers All. _

"Aw, come on, you were thinkin' it."

"Never. Besides, in that case, Alexis' acorn rolled straight uphill from Meredith's tree. Hey, look, I gotta go, my toast is... oh, damn it." He rattled the empty toaster for a sound effect.

"Meredith at one p.m., Paula." He calmly poured boiling water over the ginger tea bag.

Paula's voice was muffled; she had the phone balanced on her shoulder, and he heard a horn honking. Where in hell was she driving at 5:45 in the morning?

"Meredith. 1 p.m. 12Th Precinct. Bye." He hung up with a sigh and poured himself a second glass of orange juice, then headed back to the bedroom with the two beverages. The sun was barely slicing in through the window treatments, and Kate had turned toward his empty side of the bed, her arm flung out as though reaching for him. He realized she'd taken off her T-shirt and leggings sometime during the night. She'd kicked off the blankets, and the white sheet draped her form. She looked like a marble Aphrodite, perfect, relaxed, remote as a goddess.

He set his alarm for 7:30 a.m. A little more precious time to himself, a little more time with Kate, an oasis and balm for his eyes and mind. Peeling off his night clothes, he slipped into the bed naked, and took her hand. She opened her eyes with a jolt, then smiled at him, comforted that he'd returned, and let them drift closed again. She wasn't normally the type who was able to go back to sleep once awakened. Usually she was hauling him out of bed, or pouncing on him for a bracing round of morning sex. But now she just draped onto his body, half-covering him, one leg tucked between his. She hummed and her weight sank onto him, warm and human. He reveled in this doziness, lulled by her radiant peace, knowing how precious sleep was becoming now that a little life swam inside...

His heart skipped, and breath just seemed to leave him. The voice in his head slithered down into his chest, squeezing his heart and ribs like a giant, sparking fist. So much could go wrong. Miscarriages, congenital defects, delivery problems, childhood diseases, playground accidents, dog bites, preeclampsia, cleft palate, displaced placenta, zombie plagues... there was nothing he could do to keep her safe. To keep their baby safe. The responsibility and the terror smote him hard. He lay trembling, afraid to waken her if he stayed, and also afraid to waken her if he got up. He was frozen, undecided. Anything he did could go wrong, horribly wrong. Meredith's pregnancy hadn't affected him this way. Of course not. He'd been young, stupid, idealistic, naïve. But he was old now, too old to be a father again, likely to drop dead before the child reached high school. Everything could go south in a heartbeat. Kidnapped, like Alexis or the three girls. Bludgeoned and stuffed into a dryer. Shot by a negligent friend. Left in a freezer for five years. Leaning against a garbage can in a filthy alley, bleeding out alone like Johanna...

"NO!" He sat up, and the horned figure that leaned over the bed, whispering sweet horrors in his dreaming ears, faded away with a flare of pink sparks on his long fingers.

Kate rolled on her back, disoriented, and yawned, blinking in sleepy concern. "You okay, Castle?"

"Bad dream," he sighed. He took a sip of juice. It was still cold, and her ginger tea was quite warm. "Amazing how much a dream can compress time."

She sat up and he handed her the tea mug. She looked at the paper tab. "Love Conquers All," she grinned, and waggled her eyebrows. "In bed."

He was still in a funk, trying to shake the nightmare away, glad for daylight. "That's fortune cookie talk," he said weakly.

She sipped the tea. "This is great, Babe. Thanks." She got up, stretched in all her glory, and popping half a saltine in her mouth, padded to the bathroom, wearing nothing but white bikini panties. He watched her as the morning light slid across her curves. She shut the door, and he finished his orange juice, then lay back against the pillow with his left forearm over his eyes, his world gone dark the moment she was out of the room. He breathed a long, ragged sigh.

He heard the door open and watched her emerge from the bathroom, smiling and divested of her panties. He hid the fear that he was becoming addicted to her, like a drug.

"How're you feeling this morning?"

"That ginger tea's a frickin' miracle."

"No, you are." Kate wasn't his drug. He understood drugs, things to try for fun or to kill a sickness, things you hoped to wean yourself off, things with side effects. No. Kate was water, air, sunlight, earth, essential building blocks of life that transcended pheromones and chemistry. She walked slowly toward the bed, morning sun glancing off her cream-gold skin, like an ivory saint in a museum. He couldn't help looking at her breasts, couldn't help thinking they were already a little rounder. The light caressed her body, and he longed to get in its way, to help it along, to rub it in, to make her glow even brighter.

"No, you are." She knelt on the bed and crawled toward him. "We are. We're a miracle."

He wanted to say it, every worshipful thing that rushed through his mind. Too much. "You're like a cat sometimes," he smiled finally.

"I'm gonna make you purr like one," she whispered. She'd brushed her teeth, but her breath still smelled like ginger. Mint and ginger and sweet.

"Good to see you're wide awake."

She peeled the covers down past his hips. "Ooh. I see you're awake, too."

•

He was right, at least in Kate's case. Pregnancy hormones make for very intense sex indeed.

•

A while later she was back dozing again, her head on his chest, her hand nested over his spent package like a protective bird's wing. It was delightful and a little frustrating. He smiled to himself. _Good_ frustrating. He felt recharged, instead of drained, both emotionally and physically. Connected, whole. Safe, at least for the moment.

She murmured, "You don't have a nickname for me. "

He kissed her hair. "I don't?"

"No. No Sweetie, no Darling, no Angel, no Hot Stuff. You don't even call me Katie."

"I guess that's true." He cupped a hand over her breast. "I have little nicknames, but they're... they're not for you as a whole."

"Little nicknames?"

"Yeah." He cupped her small, firm, pointed breasts in his hand, which was large enough to span both. "The Cupcakes."

"Mmm."

She arched her neck, gazing at him. He kissed her softly, then nipped. "Cherry-lips."

"I don't know if I'll ever be eating cherries again," she wrinkled her nose.

"Sure you will. Just maybe not cherry pie..."

She grimaced. He said, "Sorry."

"So, are all these nicknames culinary?"

"Not at all." He kissed her nose. "I call that 'Little Snootie.' Or sometimes 'Disapproving Bunny-Nose'."

He went back to her breasts. "Sometimes I like to visit Twin Peaks," he grinned.

She shot him a look.

"I have nicknames for some of your expressions. That's the Glance Askance, which is sometimes accompanied by the Shrug Huff. The milder cousin of the Freeze Glare, and the bastard half-sister of the Withering Stare of Imminent Doom."

Kate rolled her eyes and shoulders unconsciously.

"Haha. The Teenage Huff."

"TEENAGE!" She sat up, her teeth gritted.

"Why hello there, Jaw of Judgment," he giggled as she hit him with a pillow. She straddled him again. His eyes traveled down her body in feigned surprise and wonder. "You're still naked!" He ran his left palm down her side, and his right fingers. The rest of his lower arm and hand were still encased in the mesh cast.

She smelled like both of them from their previous session, and he inhaled softly. "The Heavenly Bouquet." His nostrils dilated, his pupils too, the cerulean gone almost to indigo, eyes hooded. She knew that was a very positive sign. She felt him move beneath her.

His fingers traveled across her breasts, circled her sniper scar. "The Path to Your Heart," he whispered reverently. They skated the silvering line from her heart surgery. "The Low Road." She leaned forward, her breasts touching his cheeks, and he kissed her, up and down her chest and ribs, pausing to suck, to nibble. Her pain threshold had dropped again, his touch insanely pleasurable on the sensitive nipples. She rocked back down to hover over his hips, finding there was considerably more to sit on than there had been, only moments ago.

His hand traveled down her belly to her navel. "Belly-dance central."

"You've never even seen me belly-dance," she grinned.

"Not to music, I haven't." She rolled the muscles, and a part of him showed great interest in coming along for the ride.

He caressed lower still. "Soft, furry little mound..." he smiled. "What puts the Ape in Apricot?"

"Courage!" she laughed.

There were more. I won't tell you what they were referring to, you'll have to figure it out for yourself. I do not recommend you ask your mother.

"Allow me to reacquaint myself with The Little Lady in the Pink Bonnet," he murmured, and she bucked against his finger with a soft moan.

"Any other nicknames?" she grinned.

"This is the pearl..." he circled it. "Here's the mussel."

"You feel like doing some pearl diving?" she grinned.

He winked at her. "After I shave. Oh, look, a pretty pink butterfly. What nice wings." He sighed happily. "I may be the only man on earth with his own pet butterfly."

"Welcome back," she breathed.

"The Merriest Place In the Universe!"

"Ohhh," Kate breathed pleasurably. "I'd always thought that was DinkeyWorld."

He snorted derisively. "DinkeyWorld? Hah. Believe me, I've had more fun in ..." he crooked his finger, and she responded with a moaning purr.

"Right there."

"In here. And the lines are a _lot_ shorter. Although I'll admit the wait to get into the park was hell." He circled his thumb, and swamped by a wave of sensation, the little lady in the pink bonnet ducked, then popped up again, ready for more. Kate whimpered. Rick sang the International Clockwork Doll Song in a small, squeaky voice, _"It's a tiny world don't you know..."_

Kate grunted. "Shut _up_. Do that again," she growled. He did that again, then pulled her down on him, his hands on her ass. The Mussel and the Pearl experienced some very stimulating tidal action.

His hand moved with a gentle rhythm. "Row, little boatman. Row your little pink boat." The man in the pink boat rowed toward Rick's Merriest Place for all he was worth, his soft canoe swamped by their mingled juices from last time.

"Hey, Perry."

"Castle..."

He chuckled and whispered, "Rosebud," then leaned in to lick her neck and nibble on her earlobe. He pulled out a moment, humming "Merrily, merrily merrily, merrily, life is but a dream..." and while she laughed around him, rubbed against that most sensitive place until she was frantic, pushing back against him, _more more more,_ then slammed himself back home, again and again.

"What are you... AH!" She jerked, spasming so hard that she wrung his release out of him, and they collapsed together, breathing together, breathing hard, laughing, but it was more than laughing, a sense of adventure shared, lines crossed willingly then tied back together in an endless knot.

"Also known as 'where no man has gone before,'" he added.

She giggled. "You have a filthy, filthy mind."

"True. Let's go shower." They got up and staggered into the bathroom, and Castle ran the water, got in and let it hammer on his suddenly-sore body while she used the toilet in relative privacy. He knew this kind of day-to-day intimacy was a stretch for her. He also knew that as her pregnancy progressed, her body was going to do things in its own way and time, and the more comfortable she felt with him, the more he'd be able to help her.

He washed and had started shaving when she stepped in and started to shampoo her hair, although she hardly needed to since they'd both showered last night. Her exquisite bottom bumped his hips softly when she bent to set the bottle back down. He nudged her, and she nudged back, but without much of a will. "I need to eat breakfast," she said.

He talked while shaving with his left hand, and of course cut himself. "Yes, you do. Ow." He rinsed the cartridge and took another swipe. "And lunch. And snacks. Second breakfast. Elevenses. High tea..."

"You sound like a hobbit."

"I can't reach to shave my feet, would you mind?"

"I'm afraid to bend over at this point," she laughed. "Maybe later."

"Wise woman. We don't have all day."

Her face shadowed. "True." She knew he had his daily appointment with Kelly Nieman at 10, and a debriefing with Dr. Aruna Patel at 11. "You doing okay, Castle?" They'd both rinsed, and he shut the water off. He didn't answer.

"Castle?"

He smiled bitterly as he dried his head off with a fluffy white towel. "No. For one thing, my head still feels like Velcro."

"Castle." She caught his gaze, took the towel away and wrapped it around his hips, pulling his body close. He didn't resist. "I wish you'd talk to me about this. I really want to know what's going on between you and Kelly Nieman."

He sighed. "I promise, I'll tell you one day. Suffice to say she's doing everything she can to bring out the worst in me, and... it's easy for her. I have a lot of worst. I'm like a sausage factory, and you don't know how those things are made."

Setting the dangled bait for a sausage pun aside, Kate cupped his face in her hands, eyes pleading. "I really want to help you."

"Oh, God, Kate, you are. Just do what you've always done."

Kate frowned slightly and bit her lip. "Treat you like crap, run screaming from intimacy, and engage in obsessive lip-chewing?"

His eyes were teary, but he chuckled. "No, the other thing. Keep bringing out my best."

She started to say one word, but changed her mind. "Forever, Rick."

He kissed her and wrapped himself around her, saying her name like a prayer. "Kate."

She smiled into his shoulder. "I know what my nickname is, now."

"Kate," he repeated. "Hardly anyone gets to call you that. You're my Kate. Not Katherine, not Kbex, not Beckett, not sweetie, angel, darling, peaches..." He held her so tightly she almost felt he was trying to pass into her, through her skin, and his words confirmed it. "When we make love, and you come away from it with something of me inside you, it's like... It's what I've wanted forever, just to love someone like this, to be..." his voice failed him.

"Carried, just a little," she whispered. He nodded silently.

She added, "Something bigger than yourself, than both of us. Even bigger than having a baby together."

"Yeah," he breathed. His voice was small. They stood together a long moment, embracing beyond words, drawing strength from one another. Her stomach growled, and she said, "Oh, I think someone's hungry."

"I have time to make pancakes."

"I'm beginning to think you're my spirit animal."

"Just another nickname," he shrugged. They dried off and dressed for the day. Rick was ready first, having a good deal less hair to manage. He grinned at Kate. "I don't know about you, but it smells like Alexis beat me to the pancake griddle." He stepped out into the great room, and Kate heard his voice squeak,

"_MOTHER?"_

into a falsetto range so high that dogs walking on the sidewalk five floors below pricked up their ears and barked. An echolocating dolphin in New York Harbor got distracted by the distant squeak and banged its nose on a tugboat. Thirty miles away, a bat named Puff mumbled, "O_h, come on, really_?", turned around in her sleep, and tucked her face into her leather-and-lace wing.

Unable to hear into the ultrasonic range, but somewhat alarmed by his tone, Kate hurried out of the bedroom to find Rick frozen in place.

Martha Rodgers was sitting on a stool by the kitchen island, She was wearing Jackson Hunt's black bowling shirt with the skulls and flames. And, thank God, leopard print leggings. She had just taken a sip of coffee, and gestured to them with a glowing smile. "Good morning, Darlings!"

Hunt, in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, glanced up at Rick with a brief, bashful grin, and a flourish of his spatula.

"You kids want pancakes?"


	23. Chapter 23

**Special thanks to Rabbit of Caerbannog for suggesting a song that reflects, in part, what might have come to Rick's mind at this particular stage of his journey. I've never listened to GNR before, so it's been an education. **

_**Too Soon Chapter 23 – Sneeze Guard**_

_And when your fears subside_  
_And shadows still remain_  
_I know that you can love me_  
_When there's no one left to blame_  
_So never mind the darkness_  
_We still can find a way_  
_'Cause nothin' lasts forever_  
_Even cold November rain_

_Don't ya think that you need somebody_  
_Don't ya think that you need someone_  
_Everybody needs somebody_  
_You're not the only one_  
_You're not the only one_  
_**November Rain – Guns N Roses**_

**June 18, noon**

After Richard Castle's exasperating session with Kelly Nieman, Dr. Aruna Patel met up with him in the hallway. "I was listening in. Are you frustrated with your level of progress?" She was hurrying along on short, plump legs, her sari swirling under her lab coat, trying to keep up with him.

He moved fast, even with a limp. He glanced over and saw her trepidation, slowed himself. "Sorry." He was struck briefly with a wild longing for Beckett. How much more fun it was to pretend he couldn't keep up with her, than to be doing this with a relative stranger. And a psychiatrist at that. He said, "I'd rather not sit down on a couch today."

She nodded, her eyes understanding. "This way." She turned left, instead of right toward her office, and they went through a different checkpoint.

They came to the hospital cafeteria, and he held the door open for her. "May I buy you lunch?" he asked.

"Oh, no, I am on account here. Employees eat at no charge. The long hours can be very demanding."

He nodded and winced slightly at the menu offerings, hand-lettered in colored chalk on a blackboard. "_Salisbury Steak._ The last TV dinner I had was Salisbury Steak, and that was 1992."

The doctor beamed, white teeth flashing in mocha skin. "That may just be the same vintage. I'd recommend the tofu stir-fry, and it's not just because I'm vegetarian."

Rick nodded. "I'll have the same," he smiled at the server, and added to the psychiatrist, "There's something about the word 'sneeze guard' that just makes me want to sneeze on that glass."

She chuckled. "We humans are perverse creatures."

"I suppose you know that as well as anyone," he said ruefully.

"It's ingrained. Sometimes we survive out of sheer spite."

They sat together with their trays. Castle said, "I appreciate this. Otherwise I wouldn't have had time for lunch and I had trouble eating breakfast this morning."

"How so?"

"Well, the good news is that Kate's pregnant."

She could tell by his smile that he felt true joy about this development, and she echoed it. "Congratulations!"

"The weird news is that my mother is having sex with… my... father." He shuddered and speared a chunk of tofu. "It's just creepy."

The doctor laughed sympathetically. "How Freudian for you. Stranger things have happened. My parents had seven children. When my mother explained where babies come from..." she spread her fingers and pressed the tips to her temples, hard. Her hands were stained with a lacy, darker brown henna pattern – she'd been to a wedding the weekend before. "I thought my head was going to explode."

Rick's eyes grew wide and he whispered in mock-shock, "The horror. The _horror._"

"I know, right?" she faked a shudder. Then she grew serious, chewing thoughtfully on a bite of sweet red pepper. "Any one of the challenges you're facing... we are talking of serious upheaval, Rick. Life-changing events."

He nodded. "That which does not kill me..."

"Makes you retreat into cliches."

"Point taken."

She pursed her lips, reminding him somehow of a small, Indian version of Beckett. The Mini Withering Glare.

He wasn't going to get past her. "You think I'm dodging the full implications of everything that's happening?"

"Of course you are. Otherwise you'd be unable to function at all. It is a coping mechanism. We all have them." She placed a small hand on his cast. "But you must remember, Rick, that the emotions will come up, and unless you deal with them honestly, they'll take control when you least expect it. This could truly harm you, and perhaps the people around you."

He swallowed, and nodded, then set down his fork and cupped his hands over his forehead. "I'm afraid to hurt anyone as it is."

"That is a valid fear. You are a dangerous man, both verbally and physically."

"Dangerous. Wow." For better or for worse, that's what he'd wanted, and that's what he'd become. "Outside of a spy novel, that's not as fun as it sounds."

She nodded and said drily, "Living the dream, you are."

Setting aside that she sounded a little like Yoda, he added quietly, "I want to hurt Nieman. I know she's a victim. I know it. But I hate her. And I won't do it, I swear I won't do it, but I want to kill her, Doctor. She's already suffered so much at her own hands and others. But I want to punish her, I want to force the information out of her. It's all so _wrong_."

Brown eyes flashed thoughtfully as she glanced around the empty cafeteria. "So do I. Anyone would, hearing the things she's done, knowing the... despicable things she relishes. It takes all our courage to admit to a feeling in which she casually revels."

"She wants to turn me."

"I know. And this is where your natural perversity becomes your second best asset."

He sighed. "What's my first best asset?"

"Love. Your friends. Your family. You do not have to carry this burden alone."

"I really do _not_ want to bring any of them into this. They've suffered enough."

"They suffered when they thought you had been killed. You hurt them again when you retreat into yourself, suffer at losing you, at watching you in pain and alone, hiding behind a joke and a smile. You reject what strength they can offer."

He huffed. "Have you been talking to my daughter?"

"No. But I am familiar with your personality type, and learned a good deal about you from Detective Beckett, Captain Gates, and Jordan Shaw."

"I don't tend to show the same face to everyone."

"It is not necessary at this time that you do so, as long as _you_ are still at the _center_ of the faces you present to the world. You may not need to bring those you love into the intimate recesses of your mind, but you can still let them help you."

"What can they do?"

"They are all individuals. Let each do what they do best, what they long to do for you. They have already moved mountains to rescue you, to help you recover from the crash. It is clear that your father, even if he is distant, has some love for you, and he also has resources he may be willing to let you utilize. Your friends at the 12th precinct have skills and experience that you've begun to hone over six years, but in some aspects, you lack training. I've heard it said before, that you are a man with resources."

He looked at her, speechless a second. "You're on to me."

"I know you have a plan. In our debrief sessions I have seen it cooking away in your eyes, hidden between the words you say. But I don't know what it is, Rick. This leads me to believe it is perilous, and that it can backfire. I don't know if you've noticed this, but I'm a psychiatrist?"

"Well, yes."

She was, in fact, head of her department. It was the case's urgency that had demanded her expertise. Both Kelly Nieman and Richard Castle presented unique – and difficult – challenges. Dr. Patel thrived on such things. "I've been studying and working with the criminally insane for seventeen years. And I do not wish you to become my patient in that capacity. So perhaps I might be just a little bit of a resource as well."

"Is that within your, uh, jurisdiction?"

Her long neck twisted in a fascinating mix of yes and no. "There are still two girls out there, that is, if they are alive. I know you are under the gun. But they are also, even more." She glanced away, then gazed at him fully, her eyes a liquid black, the red bindi dot shining above and between them, and he thought fleetingly of the balance needed between intellect and spirit, of which he often felt woefully bereft.

She said what he had been thinking, but had not dared to tell her. "I believe if you can lead Kelly Nieman to completely trust you, she will tell you what we need to know. And I think you cannot do that unless you show her your darker side."

Rick felt all the blood drain out of his face, and then a sudden rush of excitement, as if the fear of his own insanity had been flushed away by the possibility of victory. "I'd been thinking the same." He told her about his plans – to make a video "killing" Kayla Twimbly, while at the same time he had other plans, that very afternoon, for the press conference.

Dr. Patel clapped her hands and laughed. "Never let it be said that you are not a goddamned genius!"

"So... I have your permission to bend the rules a bit with Kelly?"

She nodded. "Just remember that every sound the two of you make is monitored and recorded – not limited to my perusal, but a legal record. I must recommend that you do not touch her, nor allow yourself to be touched by her, beyond the bounds that have already been approved."

Rick nodded.

"And if you are in trouble – if either of you gets out of hand - what is to be your safe word?"

Rick didn't even have to think it over. "Mephistopheles."

* * *

•

**June 18, 1pm (ish)**

Rick arrived at the loft. Kate was already dressed for the press conference, her hair up in a French twist, a floral sundress hugging her torso then flaring out at the waist, her collarbones graced with a pearl pendant. She had a cream linen jacket draped over one arm.

He said, "I'd love to kiss you but I had cafeteria stir fry for lunch."

She wrinkled her nose. "Thanks for not sharing."

He hurried to their room, threw off his clothes, took a minute-long shower (this was to get the smell of Kelly Nieman, stir-fry, and Charybidis Hospital off his skin), dried briefly, and stood at the sink. He'd already shaved that morning. While brushing his teeth, he scowled at his face and the lingering red scar on his temple. Kate came in ("Sorry to interrupt, but Martha's in the other bathroom...") and peed with a sigh ("Fourth time this morning!") then washed her hands, working around him. She took a towel off the rack and blotted the water droplets he'd missed on his back and shoulders. He caught her peeking from behind his shoulder and smiled at her sheer cuteness in the reflection.

Finished with washing, he said, "How much time do we have?"

From her perspective, he seemed in a surprisingly good mood after a session with Kelly. Kate wondered what had happened, but didn't want to ruin the moment, so she just set it aside. She said, "Aren't we perky."

He turned to her and she draped her hips against his. He hitched her skirt up and explored underneath, finding a pair of lace bootie shorts for which he felt particular fondness. His hand fondled her bottom, grinding her in closer, harder.

"Yes. We are." he grunted. "Perky."

"Ooh. More like 'springy'."

"Hope springs eternal." His towel fell to the floor as his knee pressed between her thighs.

Kate giggled. "Rick springs eternal." She slapped his ass slightly harder than was strictly necessary, and he yelped.

"Apples!"

She laughed. "I'll give you apples. Later. Right now we have to get moving."

"Peaches too?"

"Peaches. Apricots. Whatever you want, Lover."

He followed her into the bedroom. "Hey, Kate, how do you feel about bananas...?"

"Get dressed, Castle. I'll meet you down at the limo."

* * *

Meredith arrived at the Twelfth Precinct at 12:59 p.m. Detective Ryan met her with a smile. "Thanks for coming, Ms. Castle." He put a hand on her arm, and she wondered if he'd try to stop her if she lost her nerve and bolted. Of course he would. _Holy crap._

She smiled nervously. "Just call me Meredith," she said. "Can you tell me, what is this about? Am I in some kind of trouble?"

He guided her into an interview room.

LT came up to him with a clipboard. Through the half- open door, the uni saw several people in the room: Tori, the technician; Castle's mom; a pretty young man with a makeup case; Esposito; and now this woman walking in wearing sunglasses, a brown wig, a trench coat, and a hat. She might as well have been wearing a sign that said "I AM IN DISGUISE." LT looked askance at Ryan.

Ryan took the clipboard, glanced, and signed off on the form. "We're at lunch. Hey, when the sandwich guy shows up, can you knock?"

LT nodded. "Yeah, so long as you save me a turkey on Dutch Crunch."

"How'd you know?" Ryan grinned. It was LT's favorite. Ryan always ordered an extra and saved it for him. It's the little things.

Meredith paused at the doorway. For some reason, something about Martha's demeanor scared her a little. Martha was...

Martha was _serious_.

"Hi," Meredith said in a small voice. "What's this about?"

Ryan closed the door behind them. "Have a seat."

Esposito said, "Thanks for coming. We need some help solving a case."

Meredith took off her sunglasses and hat. She'd pinned the brown wig in place securely. "Help with what?" Her voice shook. She watched a lot of crime shows, and sometimes '_We need some help solving a case'_ meant '_We've found evidence that will convict you of a crime, and you are now about to paint yourself into a corner.'_

She looked around, a little wildly. "Alexis told me Rick's still alive. I had nothing to do with..."

The dark-haired, pretty young woman with the remote interrupted her. "You're not in trouble, Ms. Castle. I'm Tory Ellis, video technician for the NYPD. We're going to show you some video. We need to know whether you can imitate a suspect."

Ryan passed Meredith a form and a pen. "Before we can tell you more, this is a standard nondisclosure agreement, plus there's a bit more verbiage at the end you should definitely look over. Make sure you understand what you're signing."

Meredith huffed "Oh, I do these all the time, it's no big deal, I won't say a word." She flipped through the 2-page document, then signed and dated it in less than a minute.

Ryan said, "Look, are you sure you don't want to..."

"I'm fine."

Tori clicked _play_, and Meredith jumped back at an ear-splitting screech. Everyone jumped, and the makeup artist emitted a high-pitched squeak, then fanned himself. Martha patted his arm. "There, there, Harold."

Tory chuckled apologetically. "Sorry, thought I'd checked the levels," she blushed.

Esposito waved it off. "This equipment's older than I am."

Onscreen Meredith saw a red-haired woman of indeterminate age, somewhere between thirty and fifty, in a padded cell. She was screaming, her words a mix of English and the occasional Irish-Gaelic profanity. Meredith couldn't understand a word of it.

Meredith's eyes were like saucers. "Wha- wait. Whoa, what, who is that?" She felt acutely aware that the woman looked quite a lot like her.

Detective Ellis paused the recording. "She's gone by a number of names, among them, Dr. Kelly Nieman."

They watched the woman awhile longer, pacing about in her room, still in the jacket; there were other shorter clips:

• sitting, glowering, playing with her hair, mumbling or perhaps singing to herself.

• Cuffed, at a table, begging for cigarettes.

• Hands free, pinching her skin back, pulling her jawline up. Meredith had done the same thing; although she was only thirty-eight, she'd already had microlifts and spent a little too much time and money applying creams and serums to keep her skin firm. Staring at a wall, the crazy woman mumbled, "You're an ugly little thing. Mirror doesn't lie."

•Scratching at her skin, with her nails, feeling her face, mumbling "I can feel it falling. I can feel it." Then casting about in pockets she didn't have, looking under her pillow and mattress. "I need a scalpel. I'm not done yet. I need the _scalpel_, Michael. You can't hide it from me."

• The last clip, punching and kicking at the padded wall, over and over until the orderlies came in, wrested her down, and gave her another injection. "_GODDAMN YOU, RICHARD CASTLE! YOU KILLED HIM, YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD!"_

The last frame was a collection of stills made from traffic cams: Kelly Nieman getting into a town car outside her clinic in Manhattan, elegant with a sleek updo, high heels, and a trench coat.

"What the hell," Meredith breathed. "Rick _killed_ someone?"

"Self defense," said Ryan.

"Oh, my God. I never would have thought, even in self- I mean, even when he lost his temper, he never... " she stopped, visibly upset. "He must feel awful." Then her eyes grew wide. "I can't imagine what would have made him do that. He killed her too?"

"No. Not her. Did he tell you about 3XK?"

"Was that the strangler guy in the news? A little, just said to make sure my apartment was swept for bugs, and if anyone seemed to be following or watching me, contact the police and call him, too. I wasn't in New York at the time Rick was accused, so it didn't really concern me."

Martha said, "It never occurred to you that when Alexis' father was accused of murder, you might drop in to offer either of them support?"

Meredith's voice was clipped, defensive. "You always act like I'm a burden when I am around, so, no. I did not."

Ryan reigned them in, "The 3XK killings are pretty much the tip of the iceberg."

Meredith gestured to the wild-eyed redhead on the screen. "So, who is she and what does this have to do with Rick?"

"3XK was also known as Jerry Tyson, and a number of other names. But it turns out that he was Rick's twin brother. He hunted Rick down, had been silently stalking him for over twenty years."

Meredith glared over at Martha, whose hands were folded tightly together on the table. She said, "Rick never even _told_ me he had a brother!"

"Richard didn't know. I didn't even know." Martha explained briefly

Meredith's expression softened. "Oh, Martha. I'm... I'm so sorry. This must be so embarrassing for you," she said.

Martha's expression was wry. "Something like that."

Ryan brought them back on point. "3XK tried to kill Rick on his way to the wedding, or possibly kidnap him. We don't know for sure what his intentions were."

"So what do you want with me?" Her eyes went wide. "You mean he was stalking me, too?"

Esposito said, "We need your help to flush them out. There are two kidnapped girls out there somewhere, but no ransom demands, nothing. Nothing to lead us any closer to them."

"Wait," Meredith said. "This sounds dangerous."

Ryan pointed at the redhead on the screen. "This is 3XK's accomplice. She was in on the whole thing. We've got her locked up securely, so she can't hurt anyone else, but we can't divulge that to the public, because they were working with a network of kidnappers and serial killers. Castle's been trying to get her to talk, but... the results have been limited."

Esposito shifted in his chair. "We're sorry to ask you, Ms. Castle..."

"Meredith. And I don't see why you have to ask _me_."

"Because we're on a deadline. You're red-haired, roughly the right age range, 5'7, and 120 pounds, you have martial arts training, and you can act."

Martha snorted. "That's debatable."

Meredith glared at her. "_Really_?" she added to Esposito, "115 pounds."

Martha said, "It's all right, Meredith dear, we can pad your bra out a little, nobody will notice."

* * *

•

At 1:30 p.m., Castle and Beckett arrived at the 12th precinct and were met with hails and congratulations. Karpowski had just come back from a quick sushi lunch, swooped in and gave Kate a hug. "I'm so happy for you!" She smelled like wasabi, and Kate had to restrain herself from shrinking away. Rick caught her eye and gave her a sympathetic glance.

Beckett tried to shush her ebullient co-workers. "Look, it's too early even to know for sure. We shouldn't even have told anyone. Things..." she paused "Well, we're hopeful, but things don't always go according to plan." There were several knowing nods around the room. "So please, keep it under wraps until we're a few months along, okay guys?"

Captain Gates poked her head out of her office with a scowl. "Can you people keep the noise down a little out here? I'm on the phone to the FBI." She caught Castle's eye. "Oh, congratulations, you two, glad to see you didn't waste any more time." She went back to her phone call. "You nailed it, Agent Shaw, she's pregnant." She flashed a grin as she turned back into her office. "No pool that I know of..."

Kate groaned. Castle laughed. LT said, "They're in Conference Room B." He was carrying a box of delivery sandwiches.

Kate reached into LT's box and snagged a large cup with STRAWBERRY scrawled on it, and popped a straw in, sucking it down. "Thank God."

They paused before going in, Castle apparently steeling himself.

"Showtime," Kate said.

He nodded. "Yeah." They stepped in, and Castle grinned, amazed. "Wow. Meredith?" Ryan took the box of sandwiches from LT and started handing them around the conference table.

The makeup artist, Harold, was touching up the shape of Meredith's lip-liner, the rest of her face pretty much done. Meredith looked so much like Kelly Nieman they had to really stare to see past the makeup. "You guys did an amazing job."

Meredith said, in an almost perfect approximation of Rosie O'Shaunessy, "Ah, feck you and yer feckin' schemes, Richard Castle, and if this doesn't feckin' work, I'll hammer the shite out of you." She glanced over at Martha. "Told you so."

Kate gave her husband's ex-wife a mock-glare. "Get in line, Kelly." And then she smiled at Castle, radiantly. "No, make that "You'll have to go through me."

* * *

They sat in the conference room and Gates came in to join them, going over their plan for the press conference and for their safety from there out. Gates was actually relieved not to have to deal with the admin aspects of constant shuttling between one safe house and another. It was actually easier to have one patrol car posted outside the loft building, and everyone in one place. When lunch was finished and Meredith's makeup complete, they all filed out back to their stations and Kate went to the restroom, but Castle stopped a moment to speak with Tori.

"Hey, have you worked with cameras too, or are you purely on the analysis side?"

"Oh, my degree's in filmmaking. Anything with a lens. Editing. Storyboarding. Whatever."

Castle nodded. "Good. So you can help me direct a short movie? One minute or less."

She beamed, "Yeah! You mean outside work, or..." she nodded to the precinct in general.

"Oh, it's for work. Crimefighting stuff."

"Yeah. You have my email, just shoot me your proposal and I'll help you flesh it out."

Castle looked like a kid in a candy store. "Great! Oh, one more thing?"

"Hm?"

He handed her an old video cassette. She stared at it curiously. "VHS. 1989. Older than I am."

"Yeah. You have anything that'll play it?"

"I'll have to dig, but yes. Although you can expect substantial deterioration in quality."

"If you could transfer that onto a DVD..."

She looked skeptical. _'Dark Queen of Palladia.'_ This is for work too?"

"I'm not sure until I see it. I know it's a lot to ask."

"You'll need to cover the overtime budget and cost of rental for equipment."

"Not a problem."

"What is it? You mind my asking, I mean..." She glanced at the description. "I won't need eye-bleach? I have to be careful what I process on department equipment."

"No, it's not porn, it's just stupid. About on par with Master of Beasts."

"Master of Beasts? I love that movie!" She added in a whisper, "I have a pet ferret named Darius."

"I'll throw in a year's supply of ferret chow if you can get this done by tomorrow night."

"Deal."


	24. Chapter 24

**TooSoon Chapter 22**

**The Dark Queen of Palladia**

_Mother, you had me but I never had you, _  
_I wanted you but you didn't want me, _  
_So I got to tell you, _  
_Goodbye, goodbye. _  
_Farther, you left me but I never left you, _  
_I needed you but you didn't need me, _  
_So I got to tell you, _  
_Goodbye, goodbye. _  
_Children, don't do what I have done, _  
_I couldn't walk and I tried to run, _  
_So I got to tell you, _  
_Goodbye, goodbye. _  
_Mama don't go, _  
_Daddy come home. _  
_Mama don't go, _  
_Daddy come home...  
'Mother' - John Lennon  
_

**June 18, 7:30 pm**

Rick changed the outgoing message: "This is a recording. You've reached the Castle residence, and if you missed the press conference, we're happy to announce that we're not dead yet. All inquiries about publishing, public appearances, and interviews can be directed to Black Pawn at 212-555-PAWN. If you are a serial killer or kidnaper, please turn yourself in to the nearest police station. Anyone else, leave a message after the beep and we'll do our best to get back to you in a socially acceptable manner. Thank you."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Castle...!"

Alexis said, "Daddy, aren't you getting just a little bit overconfident?"

Rick shook his head. "Nope. The dominos are starting to fall."

Martha sighed. "We might as well put a banner out the window that screams 'We're here. Come and get us."

"I believe you took care of that with the megaphone the other night, Mother Dear," said Rick.

Kate poured herself a small glass of lemonade. She always found his lemonade a bit strong and tart, but it was perfect once poured over ice. "I'm gonna miss your whiskey sours a little," she smiled.

He shrugged. "You won't be alone. I won't be drinking till you can."

Kate wrinkled her brow. "But..."

"No. You're doing all the hard work as it is. Least I can do is not smell like a distillery."

Kate hugged him. Alexis murmured, "can you guys, uh..."

"Nope. Not getting a room right now. It's Movie Night," said Rick. "Alexis, would you be so kind as to put the popcorn on?"

"Aye, Captain."

The doorman rang, and Rick said, "Thanks, send them up." A moment later, he flung the door wide open for Tori Ellis, Ryan, and Esposito. "Come in! We just made lemonade." The sound and scent of homemade popcorn began to fill the loft, and Rick took a DVD from Tori. "I can't believe you turned it around so quickly."

Tori shrugged. "Ferret chow. An offer I couldn't refuse." She gave Rick a rather odd look. "Is, uh, your mom here?"

Rick nodded.

"I know you didn't ask me to..." Tori's face reddened. "But I, um, broke it up into chapters."

"Why?"

She chuckled. "You've never seen it?"

Martha and Jackson came down the stairs from the room they were now, uh, sharing. Her hair looked slightly mussed. Martha said, "Seen what?"

Rick turned to his mother and spoke rather apologetically. _"Dark Queen of Palladia."_

Martha groaned a little. "Now why would you want to see that?"

Ryan said, "Oh, I remember that. I saw it on Monstera Midnight Theater when I was a kid."

Esposito said, "You watched Monstera?"

"Who's Monstera?" asked Alexis.

"Think a cross between Elvira and the bride of Frankenstein, only hotter."

Kate quipped, "If you like hooters bigger than your head."

They fist-bumped, and Ryan continued enthusiastically. "Dark Queen's so-bad-it's-good. There's these black flying vampire manta ray things made out of garbage bags, and a sarcastic talking badger, and a hot redhead in a brass bikini..."

Rick choked, and Martha coughed discreetly. "That would be me, and the bikini was bronze."

"Sounds good to me," said Jackson.

Ryan didn't quite look at Martha after that. He said to his beer, "So, uh, that was you, Ms. Rodgers?" A pink blush crept up slowly from collar to forehead, like a tumbler filling with grapefruit juice.

Martha's blue eyes went wide. "Please tell me they cut the nude sacrifice scene out for network TV."

Ryan shook his head, his blush deepening to cerise. "It was cable."

"Dear God." She looked at Ryan sympathetically. "Well, the hooters were real, but you can comfort yourself in the knowledge I was wearing a merkin."

Castle, who'd been drinking lemonade, did a spit take then sprinted for a paper towel to wipe off his shirt. "Mother, _please!_ I can't unhear that."

Jackson went to the wine cooler and pulled out a bottle with a little leer. "Champagne?"

She waved it off. "I'd better stay sober for this."

Rick said, "I've never seen it. Have you, Mother?"

She huffed. "_God_, no. It went straight to video in the U.S. I have so many bad memories about that production... and I just _hate_ looking at my own work."

Alexis giggled. "Grandma, really? You're worse than that lady in Sunset Boulevard."

Martha said drily, "That woman was chewing scenery before I even cut my teeth."

Rick spoke to Ryan, Espo, and Tori. "There's lemonade there on the counter, beer in the fridge, wine in the cooler – help yourself."

Alexis had made a double batch of popcorn, divided it into two huge bowls. Kate melted the butter and left it warm in the pot for whomever might want it. "So just exactly how embarrassing is this movie?" she asked. Alexis rummaged for the printed red-and-white popcorn bags Rick kept around for movie nights with company.

Tori said, "I created a menu, Castle. So you can skip over the nude sacrifice scene if you don't want Alexis to see it."

Kate looked alarmed, and mumbled, "That's... pretty bad."

Martha was puzzled. "Actually I wore a body stocking the whole time. Otherwise I'd have gotten hypothermia. But really, I thought I'd wound up on the cutting room floor."

Rick shook his head. "That was in the European version. In the American version, there was some kind of lawsuit and it got put back in. I read it in IMDB."

"We'll only watch a few minutes. Just to get a feel for it." Rick looked around the room, arranging chairs around the TV. He said, "I really should have rented a screening room."

The ten of them pulled up various chairs (Kate lounged on the couch, slumped on Rick and likely to conk out at any moment).

* * *

The title sequence came up: a half-ruined castle in a rainstorm, the words _"Dark Queen of Palladia"_ in red letters, dripping blood. _"An Alan Smithee Production."_ (Alan Smithee being the pseudonym used by disgruntled directors to disown bad work). Then lightning, a triumphant cackle, and Martha Rodgers standing on the roof in a brass, no, I mean bronze bikini, waving her staff at the sky as lightning forked out of it. Martha had been about 45 when the movie was shot, was still very trim and utterly lovely, looking much younger than her years, helped along by a magnificent collection of elaborate red wigs and a soft-focus filter on the lens for all her closeups.

Jackson gave her a nudge. "You're even prettier now," he murmured. She blushed. Genuinely blushed, and leaned against him with a sigh.

Alexis stared at her grandmother. "Omigod, Gram."

Ryan chuckled. "You might want to avert your eyes for the next 93 minutes."

Alexis said drily, "There's nowhere safe to look anymore."

It was basic sword-and-sorcery: Handsome hero loses family to marauders, finds and befriends talking badger, meets beautiful princess. She is captured by evil queen who wants to rule the world, trek through swamp, armies mowed down, showdown on the roof, love conquers all, yada yada yada.

"It's so strange," Martha said. "The director and I had quite a falling-out because I left the production to pick Richard up in Dublin." She puzzled. "I was paid for the role, but I'd heard Jean Marsh was cast to take my place."

Rick said, "Well, she wound up in Willow instead. Maybe she didn't like the way she looked in a brass bikini."

"Bronze," corrected Martha, although at that point in the movie – where she's plotting the downfall of a rival sorcerer - she was wearing a black hooded cape, a green snakeskin halter dress, and a necklace made of fake kitten skulls.

Ryan was reading the IMDB listing aloud off his cel phone during a particularly slow part involving the princess swimming naked in a lake and being attacked by giant leeches with a strong resemblance to truck inner tubes. _"This movie doesn't even qualify for a Raspberry Award. The love scenes are embarrassing. The budget didn't cover erasing the strings out of the flying stingray vampire kites. The battle scenes are especially bad: The evil army appears to be the same cast as the good guys, only in different costumes and running in the opposite direction._ (Here Rick grinned and said, "Nailed it!")._ Dark Queen's sole saving grace is the criminally underrated Martha Rodgers, who uses her theatrical training – and other considerable assets - to grand effect as Queen Bodacia. While this is the equivalent of paratrooping Lady MacBeth into a high school production of Highlander, she's still worth watching, and you may just wear out the tape when you get to the – uh – climax of the film at 86.27.33."_

Martha grabbed the remote from her son. "They told me they weren't going to use that scene."

Rick snagged it back. "Mother, you couldn't pay me to watch it. In fact, you'd need one of those eyelid-prying devices in Clockwork Orange."

"I second that," said Ryan. His face was now the color of a tomato. He was a veritable fruit-basket of bashful hues. "You know, we really should get going..." he began.

Rick said seriously, "No. There's something I want you to see."

Kate yawned, "I'm sorry, but this had better be worth staying awake for."

"Oh, it is. I think... yeah, if I'm in the movie at all, we're coming up on it."

Onscreen, the hero (played by the now openly gay Deke Hansen) and his princess (played by the now-Oscar-winning MaryBeth Henningsley) were slow-dancing in her father's stone castle banquet hall, surrounded by forty or so barbarian soldiers in faux bearskin loincloths and rusty-looking armor. Two of the soldiers were tall, stringy young men, playing a dice game in bright torchlight. They were extras, so they had no spoken lines, but their faces were fairly vivid. One was brown-eyed, a little bit baby-faced, with a beard and short, ratty dreads. The other was a tad bigger, blue-eyed with barely a peachfuzz goatee and a crooked grin. Kate recognized Rick first. "That's you, Castle."

Rick nodded. "Yeah. That was me." His teen barbarian self was obviously having a blast. The paused frame caught him slamming the dice cup down onto the table.

"You were such a … kid." Alexis breathed.

"You were adorable!" cried Kate. "Look at you!"

Ryan punched Espo in the arm. "He's skinnier than me."

Alexis had an odd look on her face. There were very few pictures of Rick before he got famous, and they tended to be out of focus. He had no school yearbooks, and Martha was a terrible photographer. ("It's not my fault, he was always _moving_.")

In this film, Rick was quite skinny and a little younger than Alexis, fresh-faced and still coltish. She said, "Wow, Daddy, you hadn't grown into your nose yet."

He reached over and touched Alexis' button nose tip with a gentle finger. "I doubt I ever will, Pumpkin," he smiled ruefully. He un-paused briefly, then paused again. The camera had zoomed in on the scene. Now there were two others showing more clearly in the frame. Barbarian Rick drank from a dented tankard. Next to him, the bearded boy pulled a laughing wench into his lap. She was round-faced, cute but not exactly pretty, with smooth black hair, pronounced cleavage and crooked teeth. She was a bit older than the other two, in her early 20s. All in all, their collective moment of greatness lasted about 12 seconds.

Martha gasped. "Oh, my God. I know him." Her voice shook. "Is that _him_?"

Rick nodded. "He went by Declan Connor on set. But his given name turned out to be Michael McGowran."

Kate had been a bit dozy, but now she sat up, fully awake and tense. "That _is_ Tyson."

"Yes. And the girl is Rose O'Shaunessy. Became Kelly Nieman. This was a non-union shoot, and she assisted with makeup on the extras. Mostly blood spatter."

Several people said, "Holy shit."

Esposito said, "Aren't they wearing a lot of makeup, though?"

"No. After the film shoot was over, I met up with them in Dublin. They weren't much different aside from the costume stuff." He paused, trying to decide how much to say with Alexis there. "They cleaned up a bit, but at the time, they basically dressed like, I dunno. Wanna-be hippies with a streak of punk. They seemed so... _harmless_. " He shrugged helplessly. He'd liked Declan so much. The betrayal, which seemed so senseless, had shaken him to his core. After everything... it still hurt. He decided not to mention that at the time of filming, Rosie and Michael had already committed several murders. Alexis and Martha didn't need to know that. He still had trouble really believing it.

Rick added, "Tori, now that we have clear shots of them in their youth... do you think we can find anything on them through facial recognition?"

Tori said, "Could be. Just make sure you flag me for other angles. The tape's really old, and a bit dark, so it's hard to get anything really clear. Toward the end it starts to really fall apart."

Martha had been unusually quiet, staring at the screen. "I mean, Richard, that I _know_ him." Her eyes were tearing. Jackson produced a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket, and she repeated "I _knew_ him."

Castle turned to look at his mother full on, tilted his head, and listened.

"He was a Stage Door Johnny. He went by Oliver McCree. I mostly saw him in New York and Seattle, sometimes in San Francisco."

"What do you mean, 'saw him'?" said Jackson quietly.

"Oh, he was just a sweet young man. He said he traveled for his work, in computer sales, and tried to catch me whenever we were in the same town. Sometimes he'd bring flowers, or a bottle of champagne." Her lip trembled. "I didn't recognize him. It never occurred to me... how could I not _see_?"

Kate said gently, "Context is everything, Martha. You couldn't be expected..."

"He was so _hopeful_!" Martha quavered. She took a long look at the three young people laughing together on the screen. She took the remote from Rick gently, and rewound to the beginning of the scene, then paused it on her sons again. "And so funny. Polite to a fault, witty. He reminded me of you, Richard." She sighed, stifling a sob. "We went out for coffee one night, and he knew every movie and TV show I'd ever appeared in. Showed me his scrapbook. I didn't even remember the first few times I'd signed things for him over the years." She sighed. "He hadn't made much of an impression until I saw the scrapbook. I was so flattered."

"How long did this go on?" Rick's voice was barely a whisper, his face white, thinking of Tyson in the same room with their mother, thinking of what the bastard could have done to her. Kate was close to him, and she could feel him shaking all over. She got up silently and went to get him a glass of water.

"Years, Kiddo. _Years_. There were long periods where we were out of touch - our paths just didn't cross. I finally met his wife – he introduced her as his _new_ wife. It was last summer at Cal Shakespeare when I was doing the Scottish play. She met us for a drink at the Claremont. We talked all evening."

"You think his wife might have been the same as the girl in the movie?"

"Maybe. Hard to say. Eileen... no, Colleen. Such a lovely woman, a bit older than he, I think, but beautiful and very bright. She worked in the medical field. So polished, red hair the same color as mine... I mean my natural strawberry of course, not this auburn..." she fingered her brightly dyed tresses thoughtfully.

"Scottish play?" said Esposito.

"Scottish play." said Ryan. "MacBeth."

"Don't say that name," said Martha anxiously.

"MacBeth," frowned Kate, deep in thought. She handed Rick the water glass and he took a grateful sip, not even having noticed that his mouth had gone dry.

Martha said, "I never even really noticed Michael on the Dark Queen set. I mean, I was happy to see you having a good time with the other cast, but it never occurred to me he was the same boy who..." she took a sip of lemonade, then rubbed her forehead with shaking fingertips. "God. I should have watched this long ago."

"I didn't want to look at it either. I can't tell you how many times I've thought of throwing it away."

Kate squeezed Rick's hand and spoke to Martha. "Let's see if this has anything else to tell us... is that okay?"

Martha nodded, staring at the screen, the two young men laughing over dice and a sexy girl. "You were both so..." she pressed fingers to her lips and blinked back tears.

"I hate what Tyson became, Martha," said Kate softly. "But your sons were beautiful."

"He was already planning to kill me here," Rick pointed at the screen. "I wonder why he didn't."

Alexis's eyes were somber. "I think he liked you too much. I think you caught him by surprise and he lost his nerve."

Rick shrugged. "Maybe. Shall we move on?" he looked around. "All right now, brace yourselves for the horrific Garbage Kites of Doom."

Really, it was worse than anyone could possibly have imagined. They all had to laugh at the occasional glimpse of Teenage Barbarian Rick amongst the other soldiers, running around in a furry loincloth, defending himself against menacing sheets of shiny black plastic flapping over animatronic frames. Finally, Esposito said, "You know, you've been holding out on us, Castle. You can't act, but your fight skills in the movie are not half bad."

Ryan added, "Yeah, you almost totally killed that garbage bag."

Rick mock-bowed. "I contain multitudes." They all had a good laugh over the scene where the Queen stands atop the waterfall and mows the barbarians down with her staff of lightning. Rick and Declan/Michael/Jerry flailed around, flopped down twitching in the mud, and wound up covered in fake blood, but continuity was off, so sometimes the blood went away and came back again, or their "corpses" would twitch back to life in the next camera angle. "They say a brave man dies but once..." Castle murmured.

Ryan said, "I'm beginning to think you're a cat. Ooh, look, you're alive again! Now you're dead. Don't move... wait for it... he's alive? Aww, dead."

Espo nudged him. "Special place in hell, dude."

They watched the army re-animate as zombie slaves for the Dark Queen, with Rick and Declan staggering along, hollow-eyed, obviously trying not to crack up. Declan actually doubled over laughing but covered it with a spasmic zombie flail. Then the camera cut away to Martha intoning to a henchman, "You idiot. I need virgin blood for this spell. IF I CANNOT HAVE THE GIRL, THE GOAT WILL HAVE TO DIE."

Rick skipped over the Nude Sacrifice scene, just up until the end where it backfires (the goat apparently having been around the block a time or two). The Dark Queen is engulfed in her own garbage bag monster minions and thrown off the roof of the castle to her doom. The zombie barbarian horde is magically returned to life. Hero and princess kiss. Badger reunites with badger girlfriend. The End. Cue credits.

* * *

Rick stopped play, making a mental note to check the credits later.

To Martha's bittersweet surprise, everyone stood up and applauded her.

She gave a bittersweet bow and sighed, "We take the work where we can get it." She walked over to Rick and embraced him. "Thank you, Kiddo. I really don't know what to say."

Kate and Alexis shared a glance, then Kate silently shooed their guests out, sensing that the mood had shifted to something very personal. A moment later, Rick looked up to find nobody in sight but Kate, watching him and his mother in this awkward hug. She said, "Goodnight, Martha," and hugged the two of them briefly, then slipped away to the bedroom. Martha continued to lean on Rick.

"I'm so sorry, Mother," he whispered. His throat ached. "I killed him. I killed all of him, the good and the bad."

He could feel her trembling. "No." she sobbed briefly. "You did what you had to do. And in some way, he must have felt... felt that he was doing what he must do. He was sick, Richard. Never forget that. I don't think either of us could have helped him, in the long run." She tilted her head back and looked up at him, then moved out of his hug. "But I'll be honest. There's a part of me, a very small part... I _am_ angry with you. It's not rational. I was so disappointed with you when I came to pick you up at Dublin Hospital. That was just youthful, stupid experimentation, and I never knew how close you came at that time to dying. But this is different."

Rick nodded. She went on. "You're not the tender-hearted boy I thought I knew. He's gone. You killed that sweet boy as well. My gentle, dreaming son. I'm not even sure who you are anymore."

Rick pressed his lips together, holding back tears, and nodded. She could see it there, an anger and bitterness he always, always hid, that only poked out as the occasional jab or sarcasm, that he cloaked in humor and padded in money and compliments. Because she'd been all he had for so very long, and he could not afford to lose her, still he strove to be the good son she wanted. It was, in his mind, never quite enough from him, and never enough from her. That anger showed a moment, naked, for once, for the first time since she'd rescued him, sick and disoriented, from that Dublin hospital. "You helped," he rasped.

Her hands were steepled flat in front of her mouth, almost as in prayer. "I did. You needed a father, I gave you boyfriends. You needed a mother, I gave you drunken nannies who lay on the couch watching soap operas. You needed a home, I gave you boarding schools and miserable little camps. You needed my attention, I kept it all on myself. I made too many mistakes." She sighed. "I am so, so terribly sorry, Richard. I've made too many mistakes. I'm never going to be perfect. May I make more?" She smiled tremulously.

He nodded painfully and they clung to one another again. "Mother, if you can forgive me, I can try to forgive myself."

"Of course, Richard." She took his face briefly between her hands. "You are a good man. Michael's sickness was not your fault. Please believe that."

"Yeah," he said. "I'll try."

"I expect that will come slowly," she said. "We can't just wash our hands of guilt."

"Out, damn Spot," he said.

Martha's eyes went wide. She let go of Rick and went for the remote. "I need to see... how do I get to the menu again?"

He pointed out the button. "Here. What is it?"

"Close your eyes, I don't want you to watch this scene." She jumped to Scene 23 with the naked goat sacrifice (the goat had actually been an adorable baby, and even plunging her knife into a stuffed-animal approximation had been a bit unnerving). "Richard, have a look at that IMDB review. The one where he talks about Lady MacBeth. No, get your laptop, I can't read that little screen."

Rick grabbed his laptop. Martha said, "What's the time, in the review, that he likes to watch over and over?"

"86.27.33."

"Good, now don't look at the screen unless you really wish to see me nude and covered in fake goat blood."

Rick closed his eyes and stuck his fingers in his ears for good measure, softly singing "La la la la la I'm not listeninnng!" to himself. Martha had to smile. Her little boy hadn't completely died away, after all.

She stopped it at 86 minutes. The Dark Witch Bodacia had slaughtered her goat atop Powerscourt Falls, drunk the blood, smeared the "viscera" all over her body, and was now cloaked again, fake rain pouring down on her, talking to her zombie barbarian army and garbage-bag-kite minions (who would, in short order, be defeated by the combined strength and innocent love of the hero, the princess, and the magical badger).

Bodacia gazed out over her army, magical staff in hand. Rick couldn't pick himself and Declan out of the crowd - they'd done many takes - but he knew they were there somewhere. "You_ have a great destiny before you. I love you, my sons, as much as any mother can. Go forth and prove yourselves to me, and we shall walk in greatness together at last." _She held the staff aloft, then smote the ground, which shook and rumbled.

"Play it again," Rick whispered, watching the counter.

Martha handed him the remote. "My hand's shaking."

He advanced the recording carefully.  
86.27.33. _"I love you, my sons." _

Martha stared back at her own younger face on the screen, the chilling, beatific gentleness she'd radiated in the middle of a mad scene. "I love you, my sons," she murmured.

Rick was on the phone to Tori. "Hey, sorry to call you so late."

"It's ok, I was just petting my ferret," she said, and immediately regretted how that sounded.

He didn't even smirk. "There's a reviewer on IMDB, on the Dark Queen page. His screen name's TheG00dTw1n. Is there a way to get an IP address where the posting originated?"

Tori said, "Yeah. We might need a subpoena, but if there's probable cause..."

"Oh, there's probable cause, all right," he said. "You ready? All one word: zero zer numeral one n."

"Do you need this done now?"

"Is it possible?"  
"I'll get it rolling," she said.

"Thanks. I think the writer was 3XK."

"Oh, my God. Yeah. Right away."

"Call me when you find out, one way or another, all right?"

"Definitely. 'Bye..."

"No, wait. Are you still up to do the Kayla Twimbly movie tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yeah! No problem. I have the green-screen equipment they recovered from your hotel room, and some of my own as well. Kayla Twimbly's up for it, and Gates has signed off as long as she's present for the taping. We're a go. Get some sleep."

Tori hung up and smiled to herself. On the one hand, she was a single woman, lived alone with a pet ferret, and was on call to do all kinds of weird internet research at all hours of the night. On the other hand, she was a single woman, lived alone with a pet ferret, and was on call to do all kinds of weird internet research at all hours of the night. Exactly what she wanted. It sure beat her previous gig making colon care infomercials. She loved law enforcement.

* * *

June 19, 3:24 a.m.

Rick had gone to sleep with his phone tucked into his hand, and it buzzed him awake to find himself in a cold sweat, shaking off a nightmare. Kate stirred but didn't fully awaken.

He rolled out of bed, hurried into the bathroom, and shut the door. "Tori. Anything?"

"Yeah. The IP's located at an industrial park in Silicon Valley."

"California?"

"Yeah. Santa Clara. The FBI's on their way."

Rick felt a rush of excitement, then fear. "They should be prepared for anything. Do they have a bomb sniffer..."

"Relax, Castle. Jordan Shaw's supervising by remote, and I'm sure they'll take extreme precautions. With any luck, we should hear back in an hour or so."

"Good. Keep me posted."

Rick signed off and leaned against the wall. The night had the humid warmth of an impending thunderstorm, and he felt sticky. He sighed. No, what he really felt was dirty. And not in a fun way.

* * *

June 19, 3:35 a.m.

Kate awoke, her bladder full. Castle's side of the bed was empty and cool, and dimmed light spilled underneath the bathroom door. He was crying in the shower, quietly. Kate didn't realize it until she sat down to pee and heard the hitch in his breath, and realized that in the low light and noise from the rushing water, he probably hadn't noticed her. She debated whether to give him privacy, then heard him knock something over and curse, then saw his vague form slide down the wall. She didn't say it too loudly, giving him the choice to pretend he hadn't heard her.

"Rick?"

"I can't shut it off," he moaned.

She opened the shower curtain gently and stepped in, not even bothering to remove her panties and T. She wrapped her arms around him as well as she could. "Castle," she murmured. "Rick, it's gonna be okay." The water was fairly hot; she realized he was trying not to hurt himself, but to comfort himself. Give the man credit, he had survival skills ingrained.

"No." His hands were over his face. "It's too much." He didn't mean the water, but she adjusted the stream anyway, dialing the heat and pressure down a little, so that it felt like a gentle, warm rain rather than an assault on the sense.

She stroked his head, the short bristles like wet velvet, the grain definite, a whorling cowlick at the crown near the back. Her pressure grew firmer, massaging his skull: temples, back, ears, forehead.

"I can't unsee. Can't unfeel. Can't undo."

"No, my love. You can't." Her fingers stroked hard, the back of his neck, his powerful shoulders, shaking with sobs.

"How do you live with it, killing someone?"

They'd had this conversation before, and that didn't matter. "It takes time. And it's hard, Castle. Sometimes I have to take it out and look at it, talk about it. And then when I'm ready, I put it back away again. For next time."

"It still hurts." He spoke through gritted teeth, through physical shooting pain in his clenched arms, in the hands he'd used to beat his own brother. It hurt. He wanted to do it again, to get the pain out.

"Me? You know it does." He'd held her through nightmares, talked her through flashbacks, walked her through panic attacks. He knew. She was his road map through hell.

"He was my _brother_."

"You wanted a brother. That must be so fucking hard."

"I wanted a brother. Yes, and he just, he just..."

Rick's body curled further into itself, rocking slightly, the muscle between his shoulder blades like planes of locked steel. Kate was thankful for their truly immense water heater. She said, "I don't think this shower's helping you." She plugged the drain and let it begin to fill, then switched off the shower mechanism. She lay back against the sloped side of the tub and stuck the bath pillow under her neck. "Come here," she said.

"No."

"Rick. Babe. Come on, just, come here. Lie here with me. You can go back to being miserable by yourself when I fall asleep on you."

He sighed to the insides of his knees. She smiled ruefully. At least the physical therapy was working on his leg. "You've been working hard. Two weeks ago, you were barely able to bend your knee."

He didn't move. She added, "This pain you're feeling. It's real pain. It's a real injury, and it's hitting you, body and soul. Is that true?"

Small nod.

"So," she whispered. "It's work to heal your soul, too. Don't hate yourself for something you were forced to do. Don't add insult to injury."

"Cliche." He slumped over on his side then scooted up between her legs, the water supporting much of his weight. "I'm afraid to hurt you," he murmured, his head on her chest.

"You're not squishing me. I'm fine," she kissed the top of his spiky head. She was still wearing the white T, her nipple half-peaked, forming a soft mound under the thin fabric.

He put his broken hand over her breast, water draining and swishing easily through the 3D printed mesh of his plastic cast. He didn't want to be distracted by her tits at that point. She seemed to understand that he wasn't copping a feel, just finding something to hold onto. He said, "That's not what I mean."

"Yeah, I know." She wrapped a leg loosely over his waist, a familiar, casual embrace. "You probably will hurt me, Rick, at least emotionally. I know you wouldn't do it on purpose anymore though. I'll probably hurt you again, too, at some point. I'll do some stupid thing. But you know what?"

"What?"

"When the wheels fall off, we'll just make spare tires out of whatever giant leeches happen to be floating around. We'll just keep rolling."

"That's like something I'd say," he mumbled into her left breast.

He felt her chuckle beneath him. The water swished. It was delectable, like he was inside her, but not sexy-like. He was with her. He was with _Kate_. The world could not be so bad, if only he was with Kate.

She agreed. "So it is. You're in my head all the time now. You were helping me find you, even buried six feet underground. You're my muse, too."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Sometimes I have to say 'Shut up, Castle' even when you're not around."

"So do I. Only it's 3XK. Or whatever other little demon decides to run riot."

Kate stroked the slowly-relaxing muscles down his spine, as well as she could reach. He felt her chest muscles moving slightly under his cheek, heard her steady heartbeat (_bless you, Kate, bless your beating heart..._). She took a breath. "I never would have thought there'd be a bright side to killing someone, but at least I sort of know how you feel," she said. He stiffened. She added, "I don't mean about it being your brother. The other part."

Rick nodded. "Every time I close my eyes, I see his goddamned face. It changes, but it's always him. Or Kelly. Rosie, whoever."

"That's funny, because most of the time, all I see is you. Only in a different way."

He looked up at her then. "You used to hate that."

"No, only when my eyes were open. Before I got used to you."

"Fortunately I grew into my nose," he grinned.

She caressed his shoulder. "So, can I go back to sleep and dream about you, now?"

He sat up and pulled the plug, and they climbed out. He helped her peel off her wet T and panties, tossing them into the tub until morning. They they dried one another in the low light, slowly, an exercise in gentle affection as much as practicality. She peed (giggle: "_Again_!?") and when she came back to bed, he was there, warm and waiting. He held up the blanket then smoothed it over was a flicker of lightning, then thunder rumbled in the distance. "I smell rain," she murmured, and spooned into him.

He inhaled deeply, his nose buried in the crook of her shoulder. (_Thank you, nose!_) "I smell Kate."

Naked as babies, they slept right through the storm.


	25. Chapter 25

**Too Soon Chapter 25 – Meanwhile **

_And if the dam breaks open many years too soon _  
_And if there is no room upon the hill _  
_And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too _  
_I'll see you on the dark side of the moon. _

_The lunatic is in my head. _  
_The lunatic is in my head _  
_You raise the blade, you make the change _  
_You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane. _  
_You lock the door _  
_And throw away the key _  
_There's someone in my head but it's not me.  
Brain Damage - Pink Floyd  
_

* * *

**_Tiffany_**  
Tiffany Ross sat quietly in her cute little garret on the top floor of an old row house in North Dublin. She had no idea where she was – even which country she was in – but she was pretty cozy, all things considered. The couple looking after her were older, chubby, friendly-looking people. They fed her six times a day. With little exercise, she'd been putting on weight with alarming speed, and they didn't even blink when she complained, just provided her with sweats - and sweets - in progressively larger sizes. She had no idea why she'd been kidnapped. It wasn't like her mom had any ransom money.

The woman, short and cute with watery blue eyes, was named Miss Krystow (privately Tiffany thought of her as Miss Crisco... she was droopy-round and very pale). Whenever Tiffany asked, she always said, "You were in danger, dearest one. We brought you here for your own safety. Papa and I will look after you until coast is clear." She had some sort of accent that Tiffany couldn't place. Maybe Russian.

"Then why am I locked up?"

Murphy was a big man, the remains of his hair a faded greying ginger, his cheeks pink, his eyes brown and beady. "For your own safety," he rumbled. "No way of knowing who's out there." He wasn't quite as warm-fuzzy as Miss Krystow. He sounded sort of Scottish to Tiffany.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but it's really boring here!" She had no access to TV or radio or internet, and the windows were shuttered, only letting in the faintest of gray light. But there were at least a couple hundred of books: all mystery and romance novels. Tiffany wasn't much of a reader, but there was little else to do. And in each romance novel, the beautiful, slim and feisty heroine was conquered by the smoldering love of a big, brave man whose initial attraction she resisted, and in each mystery novel, the sleuth nailed the perpetrator in the end. Tiffany rather liked this orderly little world, but she missed home: her mom, the condo with the pool and jacuzzi in the courtyard, their three cats. Taking their Corgi mutt for walks to the park. She'd been just about to start veterinary assistant training. "When can I go home?"

But they were blandly firm. "Believe me, Sweetheart. You don't want things too exciting." Murphy backed out and closed the door, locking it behind him.

Tiffany didn't know how long she'd been there when they brought her a black-and-white kitten to play with. The kitten had tidy little white toes and formal-looking tuxedo markings. She named him "Fabio" after the romance cover model. From her rather extensive experience with animals, Tiffany could tell that Fabio was about seven weeks old. She found herself watching the kitten's growth, day by day, and using it as a sort of clock.

She fed him regularly, played with him, groomed him, and talked to him. Fabio never said much back. In his estimation, Tiffany was rather short on conversational material.

•

* * *

_**Small**_  
In a soft red world, a little being was swimming, tethered by a thread not much thicker than a human hair, and from that tether, life flowed in, growing incrementally hour by hour, day by day. Once a spirit outside time, now attached by that little thread, now its own tiny clock began to beat like a heart. A thought that didn't quite yet have a mind to think it, the little being sang a joyful song that didn't yet have a voice.

"Fwimming, fwimming, fwimming. I'm fwimminnnng...!"

That little being had almost nothing to do with Jerry Tyson, and everything to do with Kate Beckett and Richard Castle. That little being was literally swimming in love. And Kate Beckett, who had returned from her "vacation" or "honeymoon" or "family emergency leave" or whatever the hell it was, was swimming in something else: paperwork. And honestly, as she sat there cogitating over casework and gestating and preparing her depositions and following up on court appearances, the tedium was something of a relief.

If anyone knew she was catching naps in the supply closet, they never let on, though the pillow and blanket should've been a giveaway.

•

* * *

_**Betsy**_

In the three-plus weeks since finding Pillow Case Rick, Betsy the Wonder Dog had been working her waggy tail off. Mo took her out daily, sometimes to two or three sites. In between? Car rides. Naps. Things to smell. She was busy, and needed. Nothing made her happier. But a part of her was sad, too. Most of what she found was centered around Pillow Case Rick's evil brother and the evil lady, too. They'd left a trail of death and destruction all over the Eastern Seaboard. Betsy knew too much about tears, about bad smells and sad smells and, more and more recently, evil smells. She didn't know there were other dogs, looking all over the country, down into Mexico, up into Canada, from New Hampshire to Miami, from Virginia to New Orleans, in Buenos Ares and Dublin, Galway and Cork, Paris and the ancient lavender-scented back-roads of Provence, Sao Paulo and Cartagena and in the jungles outside Cabo San Lucas for traces, traces, traces, sometimes decades old. But Betsy was also looking for something very special – two young women. And she found hits in a gas station in South Shore. In a parking garage in Queens. Then nothing. This was on Betsy's mind, and her nose... well, the wind was on notice. Betsy was ready.

•

* * *

_**Michael**_

Somewhere in Hell, Michael Allen Jerald McGowran Tyson, aka 3XK, was surrounded with rope. And none of it was the right color, and the rope wound around him, faceless and cold. He couldn't fight or run or scream, and it hurt so very much, until he could finally feel it, feel what he had done as his eyes and lungs burst. Until he could finally realize he was sorry. That there was pain as great as his. Greater than he could even have imagined. Over, and over, and over.

•

* * *

_**Rose**_

In the Charybdis Psychiatric High Security Ward, Dr. Rose O'Shaunessy was crying in her sleep, clutching desperately at a blanket that didn't feel enough like a doll. In the dark place behind her eyelids, her mother crawled on the floor, begging. "Don't hurt Rosie. Don't. Please."

Da towered over Rosie, his face like stone, talking to Mum over his shoulder. "I knew you'd turn on me if you found out. I just assumed you were too stupid to suss it so early in the game."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't see anything."

"Didn't see anything where?"

"ANYWHERE!" Mum was hysterical now. "We didn't see anything, did we, Rosie?"

"No, Mummy." Rosie was lying.

_She'd been playing in the garden whilst Da was out on a call. Da always turned the compost heap. But, digging for worms to feed the birds, Rosie had found something near the bottom of the pile, a round thing, hard, stained brownish. At first she thought it was a ball, until she turned it over and saw the eye sockets. She brought it to Mum. "Look," she said, enchanted. "A little Halloween skull." Mum had snatched it away, her eyes wild, then smiled a fake smile._

_"Rosie, that's lovely. Thank you. Now, I have a special game I'd like to play, and I need your help. We're going on a little trip, and we have to pack. Very quickly." She'd hauled Rosie into her room, grabbed a small suitcase, threw in a few changes of clothes and Rosie's favorite doll, and a copy of Goodnight Moon. Then Mum had packed a few of her own things in the same small case, and they'd been halfway down the walk when Da drove up in the car. Rosie couldn't remember, until that point, ever having been afraid of him. But her mother had wilted like a wax flower under a butane torch, and Da had smiled coldly, his hand clamping Rosie's arm as he swung her up against his shoulder. "I've got you, my little lass. Let's just go back inside," he'd said gently._

And now here was her mother, crawling on the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about. We didn't see anything."

Da stalked away from Rosie, still holding the knife. "Well, you're gonna see something now."

Rosie watched his arm slash down in a long, slow arc over her mother. She couldn't scream. If she screamed, she would die. She shrank back into a corner, into a tiny corner of herself, and disappeared, a diamond too small to see, pressed hard and hidden beneath a thousand miles of blackness.

The orderly gave Dr. Patel a call. "Looks like Dr. O'Shaunessy's catatonic again."

Dr. Patel sighed. She wondered what Castle had said to Dr. O'Shaunessy, so quietly that they didn't pick it up over the mic. She hoped he hadn't triggered this latest bout.

•

* * *

_**Petros**_

When you arrive at the Pearly Gates, you're alone. Everybody dies alone, on one level. But then there's another level. Just as Mephistopheles has infinite parasites on his tongue, with infinite nasty little biting mouths, so are there infinite pearly gates, and infinite Lights, and infinite Petros. E pluribus unum. E unum pluribus. Ad infinitum.

Infinite souls upload to their own cloud banks to have their deeds assessed by iSoul1.2 (which was once and evermore shall be in beta). But there will always be Infinity, and her Plus One - her date for dancing and champagne at the wedding of impermanence to eternity. I think we can also safely assume there's an open bar at the reception.

And so Petros had time to play a game of Crazy 8s with Mephistopheles. You really can't cheat at Crazy 8s, although it was Meph's nature to try, which Petros actually found endearing. The sheer consistency of evil makes it sort of predictable. Whereas goodness is sometimes a lot trickier to see, meaning that the road to Hell really should have been equipped with one of those parabolic mirrors that lets you see when you're about to turn a corner.

"Diamonds," said Meph.

They played on diamonds for a while. Petros said, "So how's Michael Allen McGowran, better known as Jerald Tyson, better known as 3xK?"

"Sucks to be him," said Meph, smiling evilly. That was the only kind of smile Meph had.

"Too bad," said Petros. "Kid never had a chance."

"Everyone gets a chance." said Meph. "He blew it."

"As soon as he's done feeling the suffering he inflicted on others, he'll be forgiven," said Petros serenely.

"Not by the ones left behind."

"Time is separation. Once they're beyond time, everything heals."

Mephistopheles looked at his watch. It had a million faces, and none of them were smiling. "You just keep spouting the party line, Pete. Skunks."

"What?"

"I'm changing the suit to skunks."

Petros looked down at the top card. It was an 8 of Skunks; this particular skunk sneered at him, and scratched at a patch of mange on its flank. He sighed. A tiny mushroom cloud of phosphorescent funk spurted up above the stack of cards. He laid down an 8 of hearts over it.

"Skunks can't be a suit. You have your choice of hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs. I'm going with hearts."

"But I like skunks."

"You don't actually like anything. You're just being perverse."

"All right, clubs." Meph pulled a club out of his ass and tried to hit Petros with it. He was blasted back against a cushy wall of cloud. Cards flew everywhere. Petros shook his head. "Unassailable good, remember?" He laid down a 3 of hearts. "This is turning into solitaire."

On the ground, amongst the pavers and shreds of cloud, Mephistopheles grunted, "Can't blame me for trying." Tiny, tarlike hands reached up from between the pavers, stretching like gum, and coated the demon in black creeping goo. He dissolved with a satanic guffaw. "Hurts so gooooooood!" he crowed, as his body hissed, bubbled, and seeped back down to the pit from whence it came.

•

* * *

**_Beckett_**

Dr. Burke got a call at four o'clock in the morning from his emergency page system. "A Katherine Beckett is on the line. She has an emergency."

"Put her through," he mumbled, half-awake. He sat up in bed, propped on pillows. His wife wore earplugs and a sleep mask, so it wasn't a problem. "Kate. How may I help you?"

"I'm so sorry to wake you, Dr. Burke. But you did say to call. I hope it's ok."

"Tell me what's happening with you."

"It's not me," she said. "It's Castle. He's having nightmares."

"Did he ask you to call me?" They'd discussed this, but Kate repeated it. "Castle doesn't want to 'see' anyone; he's already debriefing with Dr. Patel. But... I can't wake him up."

"What's going on?"

"Well, he's been talking in his sleep."

"Has he moved? That could mean night terrors. If he gets violent, keep your distance."

"He's not violent, just... weird. He sat up straight, said 'Hurts so good!' and lay back down again, laughing. It was creepy."

"What's he talking about?"

"First he was talking about skunks. Now he's barking. No – howling. No. Baying."

"Baying like a hound dog at the moon in June? I know I left my ukulele out here somewhere."

There was a long moment of silence, and then Kate heard a gentle snore from the other end of the line. "Dr. Burke?"

•

* * *

_**Maybe Betsy, but Probably Rick**_

Betsy was running in her sleep. She dreamed Pillow Case Rick was running with her, only he was a little boy smelling like leaves in spring and the plastic-wrapped chocolate marshmallow egg that she'd once gotten sick on when she found it on the lawn at the park. They were hurrying through city streets. She was late for school, feeling so small, trying to catch the bus and running as fast as she could on short little puppy legs. She was with him, looking up at things like the mysterious swing-down door of the big blue U.S. Mail box where Mother let him slide the envelopes in. Where did the envelopes go? Mother picked him up, he opened the heavy, creaking metal door, and the envelopes were swallowed whole by the rectangular mouth with its deep, metallic, croaking jaw. And Mother always seemed anxious about them. "Off go the bills with a wing and a prayer," she'd smile. Like there was something in them she didn't want to send away. For Betsy's part, almost every day a Bad Envelope Person came to Mo's house, and put new envelopes with scents from a_ll the hell OVER THE PLACE_ right into the box on the porch. Betsy thought this the height of bad behavior. Sometimes when Mo or his wife opened the envelopes they would get all mad and scared and yell at each other about money. Betsy just hated the bad envelope mail person and the nose-burning spray from that one terrible time when she tried to bite him for making Mo's wife, Jamilah, cry. Bad, bad envelope spray man and his mean pieces of paper.

She growled in her sleep. Then she went back to waiting for the bus with tiny Pillow Case Rick and his mother, whom she couldn't see in her mind's eye, but who definitely smelled like a redhead. Yes. Some humans dream in black and white, some dream in color. Some remember nothing, some remember everything. Betsy dreamed in a range of black and white, and she dreamed in smells.

She stood at the bus stop with him, wagging a tail she couldn't feel. Watching him read it at almost-four-years-old: the B16.

"B-1-6" said the little boy.

"B-16. That's right, Richard," said his red haired mother. She was so young, so beautiful. Just a blur. Betsy saw him taking a giant step up into the bus and getting to put his own coins in the slot, clink clink clink. She saw the old bus driver in his neat uniform and cap, smiling from beneath his big mustache, giving Rick one of those little enamel tie pins: "Safety first, little man."

In dreams it's ok to take a puppy on the bus. She was struggling to climb up on the slippery, chrome-tube-edged seat to stick her head out the window. She couldn't tell if she was tiny Richard himself with his big blue eyes, leaving a nose-print on the clouded bus window glass, or herself, leaning her head out to catch the elusive scent of the missing girl, her jowls flapping in the rich, nuanced city breeze. They came to a stop, and the little boy got off the bus with his mother. Dream-puppy-Betsy followed them. And what Betsy smelled was something like the preschool smell that Mo's daughter came home with five afternoons a week, only Mo's daughter had sunscreen and no peanut butter. The faint menthol scent of finger paint, mac-and-cheese with cut up hot dogs, the corner where someone (not him) peed, the Lysol, the metallic smell of sweaty monkey-bar climbing, the sunflower left in its vase a day too long, the teacher's perfume, the little boy named Mikey whose weird light-haired mother hit him when he didn't want to go home. Poor Mikey. He seemed really familiar. Richard said, "If you want, you could come home with me and my mom. She's pretty. We could watch cartoons and eat ants on a log."

Michael. It was Michael who peed in the corner.

And of course, to top it all off, Betsy wasn't wearing any pants. Typical school nightmare.

Maybe she'd grow up to be a writer after all, if only her paws could type.

And maybe Rick would find the girl.  
•

* * *

_**Dr. Burke**_

In the morning, Dr. Burke awoke with his phone to his ear, and no idea why. His last call had been from the overnight answering service, who had a record of Kate Beckett-Castle calling him at 4:23 a.m. He tried calling her, but she didn't pick up, because she was crying in the shower. People kept telling her that stuff like this is normal.

•

* * *

_**Small**_  
Kate's tiny passenger doubled in size, flexing tiny stem-cell buds that would someday be arms and legs, sprouting a tiny tail that would become a spine, then apparently fade away to nothing. Fwimming in thircleth.

•

* * *

**_Mo_**

Betsy was asleep on the kitchen floor while Mo rubbed her belly with his foot and read the newspaper. There was a slightly damp circle along one fold, where Betsy had picked it up from the porch and carried it in for him. Why she loved the newspaper delivery lady but hated the mailman, he'd never know.

He read out loud to her and she twitched in her sleep with a soft groan.  
**"RICHARD CASTLE ALIVE.** Mystery author kidnapped by 3XK serial killer, multiple accomplices still at large. Two arrested at press conference..."

Mo grinned. "That was a hell of a thing, Bets."

His phone rang, "Caller ID blocked." He answered it on a whim, hoping for extra work, hoping it wasn't a bill collector.

"Hello, uh, my name is Richard Castle, I'm looking for Mohammed Atah?"

"Speaking. Wow, hey, Mr. Castle, I wouldn't have thought to hear from you!"

"Please, call me Rick. Or Richard. Or Castle. Just no Mr."

"Well, all right then, if you'll call me Mo."

"Mo." The writer sounded pleased. "I saw you at the Twelfth Precinct yesterday. I just wanted to thank you and Betsy personally for your part in helping me..." he hesitated, "uh, in rescuing me. Her name's Betsy, right?"

"Yeah."

"I hear she has quite the nose."

Mo laughed. "You could say that. She's been a busy girl lately."

Castle could tell from his tone that all was not completely well. "You've been busy too?"

"Yeah. Normally she's not a body sniffer, but she's got a good nose for cold trails as well as hot, and we've been all over the country, last two weeks."

Atah didn't talk about the things she'd found, the things he'd seen. Horrible artifacts from lives ended in cruelty and despair. It had been hard and sad for both of them. He had friends play hide and seek with her, so she could find live people who loved her.

Castle said, "I wonder – I mean I know you're busy – would you like to meet up with me for coffee? Or, I dunno... a dog biscuit?"

"Uh..." Betsy must have noticed his change of mood. She got up from her snooze and shoved her nose under Mo's elbow, looking for all the world like she was listening in. Mo humored her, setting the phone on speaker mode. Castle's voice made her tilt like the dog in the old HMV ads. Mo took a sip of coffee. "I'm not sure what you're lookin' for here, Rick."

"Sorry, I'm- ok, what I'm really wondering is if maybe Betsy can help me find someone? I mean, I can pay, you know, whatever your rate, expenses, whatever..." his voice trailed off, but there was a desperation in it. Mo thought of Castle as he'd first seen him, sitting broken and filthy in the lady detective's arms, high as a kite, barely clinging to reality but taking a moment to be kind to his dog. Mo knew Betsy's judgment of character was impeccable, and that she'd taken a shine to Rick and Kate Beckett-Castle-whateverthehellnameitwas. He also knew that his overtime had paid a lot of bills, but that he and his wife hadn't taken a real vacation together since the baby was born. A little extra cash would be a welcome thing. Mo turned to the dog, whose tail was now thumping on the kitchen floor. "Hey, Betsy, you want to find Rick?"

She was at the door barking before he even had his shoes on.

•

* * *

_**Martha  
**_Her hand was shaking. It had been weeks since the crash, and she still awoke from nightmares of life-or-death battles and endless searches, lost little boys, menacing Stage Door Johnnies lurking in the shadows backstage... Sometimes Jackson - Alexander - was there, and when he was, she was surprised at his steady, drily humorous, comforting presence.__

In this particular instance, however, Alexander was off doing whatever the hell he did, and she wanted a drink, desperately. Even though she knew she wasn't an alcoholic, and she didn't really need it to get by, and the shaking was nerves, not withdrawal. She was fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. _Fine_.__

She found her phone in the blackout-shaded darkness, and touched the speed dial. He picked up, answering sleepily. "Jim Beckett."

"James. I'm... sorry to disturb you."

She heard the anxiety in his voice. "Is everything all right? Katie..."

"Katherine's fine," Martha said. "Me, not so much."

"What's the problem?"

Martha hesitated. "I know you're going to think this is silly."

"I've heard a lot of silly things. I never would have expected you to say anything silly between the hours of 3 a.m. and 5:30 unless you were on Good Morning New York."

Oh, he'd seen that little debacle. What, twenty years ago? She blushed. "I was wondering, if..." she paused. "If you'd ever consider taking me to one of your meetings."

"We can catch the Tribeca 7am if you like."

"_Seven!?_"

He chuckled. "Sorry. So uncivilized. Let me look at the schedule... 8 am, Westside Episcopalian Meeting Room."

"I think I can make that."

"Good. I'll swing by in a cab and pick you up."

"It's not that I'm an alcoholic, I just..."  
"You don't have to figure it all out, Martha. Especially not before noon."

•

* * *

_**Elise**_

Elise Mowrey had, for a moment, thought she was coming out of a nightmare - grabbed in a mini-mall parking lot, drugged and thrown into the trunk of a sedan. She awoke, and a red-haired angel of a woman stood over her, beaming.

"She's coming around." The cool hand on her cheek felt motherly. "I'm Dr. Nieman. What's your name, Sweetie?"

"Elise." Her mouth was dry. Dr. Nieman gave her a sip of water. She looked around; although she was on a bed, she wasn't in a hospital but rather a sort of curtained alcove in what had to be a very large, echoing room. She lay on an old-style cast iron frame bed, with a faded chenille spread and some patchwork quilt peeking out from beneath that. It was vintage shabby chic, somehow feeling more like a set than a bedroom.

"You've been out for a while, Elise." Dr. Nieman checked her eyes with a scope light. "No harm done, I think. Do you know what day it is?"

"Uh, Thursday?"

A tall, handsome man came to stand by Dr. Nieman's side. He had brown eyes and thick, wavy hair, and there was strange swelling to his face, as if he'd had some kind of operation and the inflammation hadn't gone down yet. Elise was reminded of her own sweet-16 nose job, noticing just the very faintest bruising below his eyes. He reached down and ran a gentle finger through Elise's blonde hair, tucking it back behind her ear. "No, it's Friday. May 9."

Elise struggled to sit up. "Oh, my God, I'm missing rehearsal..." She realized, dumbfounded, that she was strapped down to the bed.

"That's the least of your worries, Elise."

"Who - who are you?" she breathed.

"My name's Jerry Tyson," he smiled. And he gestured across to three other men, who appeared from out of the shadows beyond a curtain. "These good people will be looking after you until I kill you."

He spoke to the three men. "See that you get Castle's key and carry out the plan, no matter what happens to me. I want him running scared. I want them all chasing their collective tails. I want to make them look like the morons they are."

"I don't see much use in that if you're dead," said the one with the thick glasses (later known as Bob).

"I'm not going to die, and it's what we agreed to. Go back on that, and you might be the ones running." The three men blanched, white as poached chicken.

Jerry walked away from the bed, leaving Elise panting with fear. She looked up at the doctor. "You're a woman. How can you do this?"

Kelly Nieman smiled coldly. "I believe in equal opportunity." She glanced over at the three nondescript men. "You have your instructions, and you can take full advantages of the perks until then. Just remember, any DNA you leave on her is your problem, not mine."

Elise lay back, wild-eyed, listening to Dr. Nieman's heels clicking away into the distance, then the whoosh of elevator doors opening and closing. _Ding. Whir._

She looked at the three men standing over her. They introduced themselves quite politely: Bob Jones and Bill Smith and Ronald (_"Call me Ronald!"_) Brown. They were so nondescript as to be nearly invisible to a girl like Elise: all of them late-forties, average height and build, greying, thinning hair, puffy skin and a bit grooming-challenged. She was struck with the realization that they had been watching her for weeks – at the laundromat, on the bus or the metro, at the post office and coffee houses, even the beach. Because they were ordinary and seemed shy out in public, she hadn't noticed them. Being young, blonde, athletic, and long-legged, she was sadly accustomed to rude attention from strangers. Handsomer, louder, stupider men hit on her all the time. These three men – whom she had trouble telling apart - had just glanced over, then glanced away, unwilling to expose their lust in public, hunting her, learning her routes and routines. They'd swiped her out of the parking lot at a dance supply shop on Long Island. She wondered if anyone even knew she was gone. She'd been known to cut a class or two.

Ronald said, "We knew by your walk. You're the one."

"What do you want from me?" she quavered.

"Oh, we want you to dance for us. And model. We have all kinds of sets. Clothes and stuff. It'll be fun."

Bill said, "We're filmmakers. Photographers."

Bob said, "I'm just a hobbyist." He snort-chuckled.

They let her off the bed, and she explored the studio. She was still a bit dizzy from the drugs and had trouble balancing; Bill took her arm and led her around. He smelled somewhat metallic. No. It was antifungal cream. He probably had athlete's foot.

At the end was a small stage, its curtains long gone, and above the stage a hand-lettered sign:

"SOUTH BRONX DANCE COLLECTIVE!"

It was almost as large as a high school gym, and clearly underground, with high clerestory windows that had been boarded up. The floor was old and a bit scratched, but fairly smooth and swept clean. The walls were rendered colorful, even chaotic, by graffiti.

Ronald pointed out a ballet barre, still affixed along one wall, backed with a mirror. "We got you the best mirror we could get. So you can keep an eye on your technique. We'll be having shoots almost every day, so you'll have a good reason to stay in shape."

"Every day?"

"You're gonna be here for a while."

_"Can I talk my way out of this?"_ she wondered. She could hear the sound of buses and the occasional car horn from a street level ten feet above her. "I'm not a model," she said.

Bill stared at her. "Of course you are. We picked you."

There was a huge rack of costumes, and an intriguing pile of props, and on the stage a backdrop rack contained roll after roll of different scenes.

They had so many costumes, and there were drapes - filmy, gossamer drapes, lacy drapes, velvet and brocade and crisp, spare linen. They made it clear that she was expected to model the costumes and drapes for them. Sometimes she wore full costumes as she danced; sometimes she posed in drapes; sometimes she wore only shoes, or gloves, or a mask, or ropes. Of course she balked at first, and Bob, the quiet one, picked her up by her _head_, surprisingly strong, her skull pressed between his hands, her arms and feet flailing. "If you give us any shit, I'll kill you," he said.

"Okay. Okay. Don't..." She could barely speak, his hands clamping on her jaw. He set her down and said, "I think you should wear the blue dress first." He grabbed it off the rack and handed it to her.

She stood there crying, holding it. "Is there a place to change?" she whispered.

"Nope, just go ahead."

Ronald had a camera out. He photographed the whole process, taking off her street clothes - ("Panties too.") - then putting the blue satin dress on.

"Now dance," said Bill. She was too afraid to move, but too afraid not to. She danced, jerkily at first, then fell into it. They put music on. _Waltz of the Flowers._

As the days went on, most often she wore nothing, or just panties. The stale, temperate air of this basement was actually comfortable compared to the sweltering humidity of New York in late May. She told herself she'd get used to it. She told herself that she was biding her time, would make a break when it was safe. But they never left her alone, although when they hurt her, they gave her a little time to clean up and recuperate. There was a shower, with a bottle of Pert All-In-One and a safety razor and some dollar store shaving cream. They wanted her smooth for the photos. Sometimes one of them would come in with her. Sometimes they let her be, just watching.

They all seemed very much alike, but soon she was able to differentiate them much better. Bob seemed to have a nearly inexhaustible sex drive, and although he didn't say much, he could be really rough. She hated him the most.

Bill was twitchy, and tended even to giggle, like he was just playing around, like he didn't really want to hurt her but oops, there it was. "Sorry. Oh, come on, was that so bad?"

And Ronald? The man would not shut up. He talked, telling her everything he was doing, and always the question, "Do you like that? Do you like that, little girl? How about this? Do you like this? I know you like it. Smile."

He expected her to say yes, so she lied, because she didn't want him to hit her anymore. She just wanted to dance. They couldn't keep up with her. They couldn't touch her when she danced. Once she rolled herself in the Spanish Web, up by the ceiling, and refused to come down. They came with a ladder and she started gnawing and tearing at the silk. She thought it might be nice to fall and break her neck. But the silk only gave partway, and she swung down despite herself, crashing into the aluminum ladder, nearly sending Ronald flying. That felt good, until he recovered. "You think that's funny, little girl?"

It wasn't funny.

Her captors took pictures of her in sets, fronting painted backdrops: a Victorian boudoir, a Regency ballroom, a Tudor garden, a Roman bath. A great many of those pictures were nude. She could do nothing about this. When she resisted, they tied her up. They did things to her, sometimes together, sometimes one after another. Often they photographed or recorded what they did. They told her they were creating art: art of the moment, art of the human transcendence of adversity. They weren't artists. They were just consumers, vampires. They couldn't create a fucking thing. But they developed a following for the series of photos they put out on the internet: a small, faceless, fragile woman at the mercy of three men. Some folks will pay to see such things.  
•

* * *

_**Arlene**_  
If Arlene Perlmutter had known what Elise was enduring, she would have been furious. She would have switched places, because she was built for that purpose, offering a sexual and emotional outlet to unlovable men. But she couldn't know, could she? Arlene was too busy trying to support poor Sidney, who had his hands full with more autopsies and bits of bodies than any human being should have to deal with in a year, let alone a month. The NYC coroner's office was taking in overflow body parts to identify from all over the country. Lanie Parish was clearly feeling worn down by the sheer volume, and Sidney Perlmutter himself felt the strain as well. He was so lucky to have Arlene to talk to. She had a magical way of just listening, with that expression of kind concern on her face. He was lucky to have her. They were solving cold case after cold case, or at least linking them, and he felt grim satisfaction, watching the dominoes fall. 

* * *

_**Lanie**_  
At night, Lanie Parish sometimes woke sobbing, and Esposito held her. "Shhhh. Shh. It's ok, Chica. It's ok."

"I've never seen it like this, Javi. There's so _many_. Fucking bastards."

"Yeah," he whispered, and pulled her closer, stroking her curly hair. "I know."

•

* * *

**_Elise_**

Elise spent most of her time inside her own head, retreating in further and further as their violations went deeper and deeper. From the conversation amidst the three of them, she knew they were growing tired of their doll, with her tears and bruises and balky refusal to smile for the camera. After she was used up, they'd give her to 3XK, and he'd do the dirty work of killing her as planned, in his signature style. And if he never showed... of course there were contingency plans with Kelly, the red-haired lady who'd been there when she first awoke. At any rate, she overheard the phrase "This will go over big with the snuff market," and her heart froze.

She kept dancing.

•

* * *

This was VERY difficult to write, and I don't think I would have been able to finish it without the help of an imaginary dog and an imaginary baby. Even in the darkest stories, there is the possibility for joy.

Home stretch, peeps. Thank you for reading!


	26. Chapter 26

Special thanks to Ron, who beta-read this and quelled my lingering doubts. :-)**  
**

* * *

**Too Soon, Chapter 26 **

**Keys**

_Who broke the window  
Who broke down the door?  
Who tore the curtain  
And who was it for?  
Who heals the wounds  
Who heals the scars?  
Open the door, open the door._

_Won't you come back tomorrow?_  
_Won't you be back tomorrow?_  
_Will you be back tomorrow?_  
_Can I sleep tonight?_

_Tomorrow - U2_

* * *

**June 19, 3 a.m.**

Meredith, who was still "in jail" but no longer cuffed, dozed in the 12th Precinct's holding cell, cramped and miserable. In the next cell over, a man slept, snoring loudly. Meredith sighed, turned over, and thought, "I won't be getting an Oscar but this is the best goddamned performance of my entire frickin' life." The outer door opened, and closed softly. A small man in a NYPD uniform approached her slowly, and she didn't even hear him until he was at the door to her cell, key in hand, his face shadowed in the low light.

"Kelly," he whispered. "Dr. Nieman, wake up. It's Walton. I'm here to get you out."

Meredith sat up and rubbed her eyes sleepily. One false eyelash fell off, and clung to the heel of her hand. She blinked at the man. "It's about feckin' time," she rasped.

"I had to wait for the guy to take his lunch break to put him out. Man, the rumors were flying – Michael arrested, you dead, the other way around..."

"All designed to flush us all out, I'm guessing," she said.

The guy in the next cell stopped snoring and rolled over in his sleep with a snort, now facing them. He smacked his lips a few times and mumbled, "Honeymilk."

"So, what's the password?" said the fake cop.

"Do you have the key?"

Walton waved them and thrust one into the lock. "Drugs'll wear off in a few minutes, we gotta hurry. Password?"

Meredith's voice shook. "Password?" She cleared her throat and chuckled nonchalantly, "Which one?"

"Come on," he hesitated, troubled. He pulled his gun and trained it on her. "What's the password, Doctor? If you _are_ Kelly?"

In the low light, he could see that she was afraid, really afraid. Kelly Nieman wasn't afraid of much of anything.

Walton heard a metallic click behind his ear, and turned his head just enough to see the muzzle of a service pistol trained on his temple.

Detective Javier Esposito said, "Password's 'Hands in the air, scumbucket.'"

The previously-snoring guy in the next cell sat up and chuckled. "Good one, Bro." He looked at their newest suspect, swung off the bench, and stepped out through the unlocked door, cuffs in hand.

Detective Ryan, looking ragged in a shaggy wig and distressed, filthy denim jacket, glanced over at Meredith. "You're free to go, Ma'am."

"Oh, thank God." She was out of the 12th in a flash, accompanied by a plainclothes detective who'd been assigned to protect her. Once in the cruiser, she texted Rick: "I'll be staying in the Presidential Suite at the Manhattan Paradiso. Expect the bill, but you'll still owe me. BIG TIME."

* * *

**June 21, 8 a.m.**

A block from City Bark Cafe, Betsy picked up a scent for Pillow Case Rick. Her tail already actively thrashing, it accelerated to a sort of light-speed blur, and she hauled on her harness.

"Betsy. Heel," Mo admonished. She whined and did the Dance of _"Why Can't We Just Go, Okay Dad?"_ but she stopped, sat at his side, and he patted her. "Good girl." They moved forward in a more orderly fashion.

City Bark Cafe fronted a playground with a dog park. It was a tony, pet-friendly establishment in which Mo had occasionally indulged with Betsy. There were primarily small, apartment-sized dogs and the occasional rescued greyhound, aka "couch potatoes on stilts"; the dogs were expected to be well-mannered and trained to get along with others, or were summarily ejected from the premises. Richard Castle, in a newsboy cap and sunglasses, was waiting for them at the cafe's shade-dappled outdoor seating area, and with him sat an older, white-haired man, also in hat and glasses, with a salt-and-pepper goatee. Mo thought he looked a bit familiar, but couldn't place where. He looked up and waved briefly and went back to typing on a battered laptop.

Betsy only had nose for Rick. She let out a joyful bay and scampered around on the sidewalk, and Mo had to make her heel again. He felt oddly jealous. The only people she made such a happy fuss over were family – him, his wife and daughter, and Betsy's old trainer. Rick arose from the table and shook hands with Mo. Then he bent with care – favoring a sore back, Mo thought – and cradled Betsy's floppy jowls in his large hands. Betsy yammered joyfully, and Castle echoed her in meaningless lovey syllables which graduated into more coherent phrases such as "Aren't you a good girl. Aren't you beautiful? Yes you are. Yu-essss you are." He scratched down along her back, she flumped over onto her back, he found her sweet spot and she wiggled her leg in ecstasy. Mo had to admit, the man had the touch.

He glanced up at Mo with a lopsided grin. "Thanks. I needed a dog fix." They sat down, the waitress arrived, and they ordered breakfast. Second breakfast, in Mo's case, with a cronut for him and a nice chew-biscuit for the Dog of Honor. Castle introduced the other man as Jackson, and they all made small talk a few minutes. When their food came, they finally settled into discussion, with Jackson typing notes. Mo listened carefully to Rick's proposal, and said, when he was through, "Twenty thousand dollars?"

Rick nodded.

"What if something happens to me?"

Rick said, "I'll have an agreement drawn up making sure your wife and child get a yearly stipend until your daughter's 21. Fifty thousand ok?"

"That doesn't seem like much, considering what I already make."

"I mean per year."

Mo had been in the middle of a sip of coffee. He coughed a bit out through his nose. "So I'm worth more dead than alive?"

Castle shrugged. "Not at all, but guilt is expensive."

Mo glanced anxiously at Jackson. Jackson raised an eyebrow. "He's good for it."

Betsy usually sat on Mo's feet, but her weight had eased off. He peered under the table. She had done the Betsy Under The Table Stealth Begging Move – slyly placed first one paw, then the other, on Rick's lap, her nose on her forepaws. He was giving her tiny bits of bacon, her tail doing only a slow wag, careful not to give herself away. She looked at him sidelong from Rick's knees, guilty as sin. Mo scowled, then laughed up at Castle. "What, were you two separated at birth?"

Castle said, "Woof," and shot Mo a lopsided grin.

Jackson snorted a little. "So, we'll see you tonight in the Bronx?"

"If you have the signed agreement, yeah."

Jackson said, "I'm sending it off to Rick's lawyer now. He'll look it over and make sure everything's in order."

Rick's attention was on the dog, who had managed to drape herself halfway into his lap. "Con artist," he whispered. She snuffed and wagged her tail.

"_Good boy, Rick. You are a very good boy."_ It wasn't just the bacon.

**•**

* * *

**June 21, 10 a.m.**

Castle arrived at the hospital and checked in as usual. Dr. Patel met him, her dark eyes serious. He said, "Any change?"

The doctor shook her head. "Nieman woke up screaming about four a.m. And she's been unresponsive ever since. I don't know if the drugs are losing effectiveness, or if it's a result of your movie-making experiment."

"God, really?" Rick said. He felt a sort of panic. What had he done? "Can I see her?"

"This is all an experiment," Patel said. "We are going to make mistakes. I sanctioned your project. It's not your fault." They met up with Minsky, Rick signed in, and they walked through a set of hallways with which Rick was unfamiliar. Behind some locked doors he heard screams, or weeping, or babbling. But mostly silence.

Rick said, "I need her talking."

Patel nodded. "I know, and it's worth your trying. But keep in mind, this could make her worse. She's locked herself down again, and it may take time to find the key – if there is one."

She stopped at a door unfamiliar to Castle and examined the chart. "She's still near catatonic."

"I'll see what I can do."

"But in this case, the orderly stays in the room. I'll be observing on camera."

"Good idea." He clutched his Beckett-style latte and spoke to Minsky. "Ready."

Rose was hiding under the bed. He smiled bitterly to himself, thinking, _"Let's check for monsters. Oh, lookie there."_ The orderly stepped in and locked the door behind them, then held the latte for Rick as the writer lowered himself down onto the floor: harder than you'd think, due to the whole wrist-and-ankle problem. Rick lay his cheek on the cool, mostly-clean linoleum tile, and spoke to the curve of her back.

"How's my muse?" he said. She didn't move. "I brought your latte. Just how you like it."

Nothing.

"Rosie, are you okay?" Just saying that felt strange, as if by going through the motions of caring, he began to evoke actual concern for this fucking monster. She looked small and childlike, but gradually when she raised her head to look at him, her face seemed ancient and stony.

She spoke in a small voice, like a child's. "I want tea."

"You want tea?" Rick looked up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. "I think we can get you some tea."

"Milk and sugar."

"Milk and sugar," he repeated.

He said, "Knock knock." Rapped softly on the bed frame, too.

Pause. "Who's there?"

"Richard Castle. May I come in?"

A little nod. He hitched himself under the bed (thankfully, no bat shit was involved aside from Rosie's own special brand of crazy.) Still on his belly, he cradled his forehead on his left forearm. There wasn't a lot of head room.

Afraid to trust that he wasn't being manipulated, he used his Dad voice. "What happened, Sweetheart?"

"She's dead," Rosie whispered. "You killed her."

"I did," he whispered. "I did it for you. So we can be together."

"Because you love me."

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

She let go of her clutched, bundled blanket, and reached out to touch his cheek. "You should have killed me."

He said, "I'm not like the others. I'll never hurt you. Never."_ No matter how much I might hate you._

She was silent for what seemed like an eternity, but her fingers clung to a fold on his sleeve, playing with a little creased edge of fabric. It reminded him a bit of Alexis when she was four, cuddled up and sleepy at the end of a long day, twirling a lazy finger in a lock of hair, too tired to talk.

"Rosie," he said. "I'm too old to stay on the floor like this much longer. You want to come out now?"

She nodded. He hitched himself out backwards, and she scrambled out after him. She looked around the room, confused, then stared angrily at the orderly.

"Who's that?"

"I'm Mr. Minsky," said Minsky. He seemed a bit surprised, having seen her every day like clockwork for three weeks.

Rick said, "He's ok, he lives here. He wouldn't dream of hurting you, eh, Minsky?"

Minsky said kindly, "I'm here to keep you safe." He gestured lamely with the latte, hoping he wouldn't need his taser.

Rick pulled himself up and sat on the narrow bed, patting the space next to him. "Rosie. Come here?" It was a friendly invitation, not an order.

Yet he was surprised when, still clutching her blanket, she clambered up and sat across his lap, her knees tucked up to her chest. Her greying red hair hung lank and greasy around her face as she tucked her head under his chin, her cheek against his lapel. He stroked her hair but couldn't bring himself to kiss her head. He felt her rocking slightly, and matched the gentle rhythm. She felt exactly like a sick child needing comfort, and his stomach clenched uneasily, torn between compassion and revulsion. He forced himself to relax, his right fingers over her left hand. His left arm cradled her, and he made his hand cup around her: first the palm, then the fingers, and his thumb hovered a moment before he made the commitment, squeezing her shoulder gently. "You're safe," he whispered. "I promise."

He felt her shuddering sobs, and said not a word to quiet them except, "That's right."

Minsky stared at them, entranced, as the latte went from hot to warm to tepid to cool over the length of at least twenty minutes, maybe more, the serial killer curling into a smaller and smaller ball, keening; the writer supporting her gently but ready to let her go if she resisted. Castle's expressionless face gazed into a dark nowhere, and Minsky couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. Castle was thinking about Betsy, about Alexis, about Kate, about unconditional love, and how incapable he was of feeling it in this instance.

As the sobs gave way to sniffles, Rick pulled a hanky out of his blazer pocket and wiped Rosie's tears, then folded it and placed it very gently below her nose. "Blow, Sweetie," he said. Why did he want to cry? Why was there a lump in his own throat? _Fuck. I hate this woman. But I can't hate this little girl._

She blew her nose. Her body spasmed, and she spoke almost inaudibly. "I didn't mean it. I didn't want to."

Rick massaged little circles on her sharp, bony back. She hadn't been eating enough. "I know," he murmured. She felt his voice rumbling in his chest, a warming burr.

"We couldn't stop."

"I don't suppose you could," Rick said, although he wasn't sure now whether she was talking about herself, about her father, about Michael, or about himself.

There was a soft knock at the door. Another orderly entered, pushing a little cart, followed by Dr. Patel. Rosie stiffened and stared at the doorway. "It's all right," said the doctor quietly. "I've brought tea. It's Irish Breakfast."

Rosie remained curled a few more moments, then raised her head and slowly smiled at Dr. Patel. "Milk and sugar?"

Dr. Patel chuckled. "Milk and sugar. I'll have to put them in for you, just say when."  
She actually had a pretty tea set, made of melamine, that was more-or-less unbreakable. And a bendy plastic spoon.

Rosie looked at Rick and said, "Would you like some tea, Mr. Castle?"

Rick's wall crumpled. He knew what to say, having spent an untoward amount of time in his young fatherhood sitting at Alexis' little tea table, wearing a tiara, apron, and pink sparkly lipstick, with his knees crammed up to his shoulders. "That would be delightful, Miss O'Shaunessy."

Rosie rolled off his lap and sat up straight, watching Dr. Patel. "You may have some tea, if you would like, Miss..." her forehead wrinkled. "I am so sorry, have we been introduced?"

"You may call me Miss Patel." The doctor, who also had children, gave a proper curtsy. Her saree swished. It was pink, with gold and green embroidered flowers at the hem.

Rosie said, "That's a pretty dress." She looked down at her own pink scrubs and frowned a little, brushing floor-dust off her thigh. "I like purple better, though.

Minsky looked down at the untouched latte in his hand, shrugged, and started drinking it cold.

Dr. Patel said, "I think we can arrange for you to wear purple. Would you like that?"

Rosie nodded. "Not too much milk, just a little. Two sugars, please." She sipped her tea. "Thank you, Miss Patel. This is delicious."

"You are very welcome. How do you take your tea, Mr. Castle?"

"One sugar, no milk, please." The doctor handed his cup to him – noticed his hand shaking a little - and gave him an encouraging smile. He sipped. "Thanks. I mean, Thank you, Miss Patel."

Dr. Patel poured herself a half-cup of tea, filled the rest with milk, and added three teaspoons of sugar. She giggled apologetically. "I like it sweet." She had adorable dimples. "May I sit?" Rick was almost pathetically glad she was there.

Rosie patted the bed beside her. "I'm so sorry, it seems we have no chairs."

Dr. Patel plumped down beside Rose, not crowding her, but not too far either. "This is fine, thank you. Would you like me to arrange a chair for your room?"

Rosie nodded. "That would be very nice, thank you."

They all sipped their tea again, having gotten through the formal niceties of childhood tea party time. Rick said, "Next time I'll bring cucumber sandwiches."

"I like marmalade on brown bread," Rosie said. She paused thoughtfully. "Mr. Castle? What's your favorite game?"

"Scrabble. Or maybe Pictionary. What's yours?"

"Hide and seek."

He nodded. "That makes sense."

She looked down into her cup. "Michael liked to play hide and seek."

"I think we played it once. Did you know we were in preschool together?"

Rosie nodded. "You're the first person he ever tried to kill."

"He must have been really mad at me."

She took another sip. "This tea is delicious, Miss Patel." But her mind was far away, not tasting it. She blinked, and took a sharp breath, then chewed the inside of her cheek, frowning. She turned to Rick, her voice still small and childlike. "If you want to win the game, you have to go back to where it started."

Rick froze. He took another careful sip of tea, waiting for her to continue. She turned to Dr. Patel. "May I have another cup of tea, please?"

"Of course, Sweetheart," said Dr. Patel.

Rosie said "Put your hands over your eyes. Count backwards from 50."

"Usually it's 100."

Rosie spoke in a loud stage whisper, shielding her mouth with her hands from others' prying ears. "No, this time it's 50. 50 days till they kill her, tops. May 9th to July 4th. 9pm."

Dr. Patel turned to hand Rosie her tea. "Just like the last one," she smiled, seemingly unperturbed by the announcement of imminent mayhem.

Rick said, "Do you ladies mind if I go now? All that tea..." he simpered. "I'm just floating!"

Rosie looked at him anxiously. "Don't go."

"I'll be back tomorrow." He kissed the back of her hand. "I promise. Will you still be here?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Dr. Patel said cozily, "And I'll stay here with you. We can have a nice chat..."

The second orderly awaited him on the other side of the door, and saw him out. He caught a brief flash of Dr. Patel's wide eyes, her expression plain as day: _"YES!"  
•_

* * *

**June 21, 1 pm**

Since he didn't have to stay with Dr. Patel for debriefing, Rick got home in time for lunch. He looked into the fridge and sighed, then pulled out the makings for peanut butter-banana sandwiches (he liked his with mustard, which filled Kate with absolute horror). "I keep hoping this thing will magically replenish itself."

Kate felt terrible. "I'm so sorry, I haven't been hungry. I didn't even think to go shopping."

"The housekeeper was supposed to do it," Alexis said absently. She was reading a book. "She called yesterday morning for the shopping list, wants to go back to work but..." she shrugged. "No show."

Rick spun immediately, his entire demeanor changed. _"What?"_

"She didn't show up."

"She's never done that before," Castle frowned.

Kate felt like she'd swallowed a rock. "Did she call?"

"No, why..."

"Anna's one of the few people with access to our loft key," Castle said.

Kate grabbed her phone and called the precinct. Castle found Anna's address and phone number. Alexis just sighed and put her forehead in her hands. "Is this ever gonna end?"

They sent uniforms.

When they got to her house, Anna Ramirez was found alive but dehydrated, having been tied to a chair in her kitchen, blindfolded, her mouth filled with a ball gag. She was dehydrated and still shaking in terror but otherwise unharmed by an assailant – possibly two - who'd snagged her from behind. There was a typed note on her dining room table:

_Look Under Alexis Castle's Box Spring_

Captain Gates herself called Kate to let them know, and Kate promised they'd wait for uniforms to arrive before investigating. But before the words were halfway out of her mouth, Rick started up the stairs. Kate stopped him. "NO. I have a detail coming. Castle, this is not your respons-

"This is my- This is our home, Kate. This _is_ my responsibility." He seemed suddenly massive to her, bearlike in his rage. She backed up the steps ahead of him, using her speed and the stairs' height for psychological advantage, then stopped at the landing, refusing to give ground.

"You don't know what you'll find," her voice was almost a whisper, but utterly firm and commanding. "It could be nothing. It could be anything. A bomb. A body part. Evidence you shouldn't touch for any reason." He tried to dodge past her, but he was slower, and her arms were around him, oddly gentle, where a harsher move would have brought only resistance. "Castle. Please. You're not a cop. You're my husband. We've been through enough." He pouted, but she'd effectively turned the tables on him. She wasn't allowed to nose into the investigation of Kelly Nieman. And he wasn't allowed to take unnecessary risks.

Rick paused, breathing hard, then his shoulders slumped. "All right. Have it your way, but I swear..." His hands, as well as they could, balled into fists.

"Sh. I know, Castle, I know."

Martha said, "Do you think they'll be here soon, Katherine?"

"Of course," Kate said. "Our street unis are already on their way up."

Alexis had sat down at the kitchen island, her face white. "Someone was in my _room?!_"

Rick went over to her and put his arm around her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Pumpkin."

She took his hand and looked up at him, and he was surprised at the sharp anger on her face. "I am so sick of these... _fuckers,_" she whispered.

A flicker of pride crossed his face. "Me too. I think they've messed with the wrong side of the family tree." She nodded, and Kate saw their stubbornness reflected in one another.

Kate's own hand stole unconsciously to her belly, and she thought, "This baby's gonna give me a run for my money." Baby. So tiny, maybe the size of a bean by now. Rick's _baby._ Our _baby_. _My_ baby. She suddenly understood, for the first time, the raw, immense protectiveness he felt toward Alexis. How wholly appropriate and consuming it could be. And how frustrated he must feel to have his entire family at the mercy of what seemed like endless, evil tentacles reaching for them. Kate already felt protective of the people she loved, but this was a whole new order of magnitude. She came out of her reverie to Martha's smile, her mother-in-law somehow reading it in her body language.

Martha had picked up sandwich-making duty. "It never gets easier," she said, "But it's so worth it."

**June 21, 1:30 pm**  
The doorbell rang, and Kate checked the security feed Jackson had installed. The cops – familiar unis named Blake and Mordecai - raised their faces to the camera, and Kate opened the door. They told her what they'd learned from Dispatch – that there was something hidden in Alexis Castle's bed. The bomb squad arrived a moment later. They had a dog with them, and they got the all-clear for explosives within five tense minutes (The dog got a bit inquisitive about a certain stick of incense that Rick kept in his office, when Rick explained it wasn't strictly legal but not much more explosive than a sparkler, they let it go).

Blake and Mordecai went into Alexis' room and went right to it, pulling the neatly made bed apart and searching under the box spring. All they found was another note:

_Release Kelly Nieman or_

_chose between who dies!_

_the Mowrey girl or Alexis._

_Yes. We know wehre you live. _

_Hehehe!_

Blake checked the kitchen island for spills or moisture, then set down the slip of paper in her gloved hand. She frowned down at it.

"Think the writer might be dyslexic," she said.

Kate nodded. Rick added, "Yes, and possibly with the sensibilities of a fourteen-year-old boy. _'Hehe'?_ Really?"

Kate raised an eyebrow. "Maybe this is someone from your circle of friends."

"I barely know anyone with a typewriter..." he scowled. "Aw, shit."

He hurried into the office, hovered over, but did not touch his vintage manual typewriter. "Shit," he repeated. Kate and the other officers followed him in. Rick huffed, passing a hand over his eyes and into his scalp stubble. "You'll want to dust that for prints."

"Are you sure they used yours?"

"Pretty sure. See how the r tends to fade out at the bottom? That key's been slightly tweaked for years."

Mordecai said, "So they let themselves in with Anna's key and typed up the notes here?"

Rick's shoulders slumped. "Just to show they can."

Kate could read his body language as he turned one way, then another. She'd made similar moves herself, casting about miserably to punch something out of anger. "Castle," she said softly. "The Three Crowns hotel has a punching bag in their gym."

He nodded miserably. "Let's get a few things packed while they go over the goddamned crime scene."

In reviewing Jackson's surveillance footage, one thing finally got settled: how 3XK and his accomplices had managed over the years to enter the loft unmarked. He'd entered the building via the roof, then let himself in by keys he'd been stealing from the housekeeper - through three different lock changes, although only in the last instance had they actually accosted her. The men who'd entered the loft while they were all at the press conference were quite nondescript: medium height, medium build, middle-aged, wholly unremarkable.

The four of them set about packing for an overnight. Within an hour, they were ensconced in adjoining suites at a luxury boutique hotel just off-Broadway. Martha tried to make light of it. "I feel so fancy-free!" she shrugged, with a brittle smile. "One never grows tired of playing gypsy."

Alexis rolled her eyes. "Gram, that's not an appropriate term for the Romany people."

"I'm not talking about an enthicity, I'm talking about a lifestyle choice," Martha snapped. They were all on edge, despite the lovely belle epoque furnishings and view of Central Park.

Rick said to the others, "You just get settled..." He made a restless gesture. Kate nodded. "I'll make a pitstop and meet you down there."

"Down where?" said Martha.

"Gym," Rick said, already half out the door.  
•

* * *

**June 21, 3 pm**  
Kate used the bathroom and unpacked their few things, changed to workout clothes, then grabbed a water bottle (he always forgot) and met him in the little gym on the third floor. The hotel had personal trainers on-call from 6 am to 10 pm. They'd stayed there a few times, and Jake, who was about 5'5" and nearly as wide as he was tall (this being sheer muscle) greeted her with a grin when she stepped in. "Hey, Mrs. Castle!" Rick had changed into the hotel-issued tank and shorts offered by the gym. He was already pounding on a sand bag with Jake steadying it; they paused a moment, Rick for a sweaty kiss and Jake for a handshake. Rick was unable to do much with his right arm aside from elbow jabs, but he still had a wicked left hook despite the slight pull from his scar. Jake winked at him. "You're in at least halfway-decent shape, Rick."

Rick's face was red from exertion; he gratefully swigged some water. "Halfway's better than nothing, at this point," he said.

There was another woman working out there, facelifted and freshly coiffed, walking the elliptical staircase to nowhere, listening to music on her headphones, singing along in a thready little voice "oh Mandy, you came and you gave without takin', but I sent you away..." She gave Kate a slight nod, then fixed her gaze on the silent TV screen. The feed below, "Three kidnapped women still missing..."

Kate smiled to herself. "_Make that two. One's already safe."_ She set herself up on the treadmill and watched the news while she warmed up. "And in a dramatic turn of events, after her bizarre attack yesterday on author Richard Castle, serial killer Kelly Nieman has escaped overnight from a holding cell at NYPD's 12th precinct. She is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone with information as to her whereabouts, and those of her accomplices, is encouraged to come forward." Kate smiled to herself again. There were photos of the actual Kelly Nieman (not Meredith); an excellent 3D forensic reconstruction of 3XK, pics of Grossmann and Bingham (who had a before as well as the after-Perlmutter conversion), and of the man (as yet unidentified) who had tried to spring Meredith from the cell the night before. Supposedly on the loose, but all of them releasing intel in dribs and drabs. The puzzle was starting to fill in. Kate felt a little thrill, and increased the pace of her treadmill to 4 mph with a 3% incline. She found it pretty easy, all things considered.•

* * *

**June 21, 5:30 pm**  
When they got back to the hotel room, glowing and a little sore, it was pitched with gloom. Alexis had been watching TV and barely glanced up at them when they came in. Rick and Kate went and took a quick shower (for once!). They didn't talk much, just moving around and with one another in an efficient dance that anyone observing (and in this case, nobody was) would think had been choreographed.

Rick said, "I'm worried about her."

Kate didn't need to ask who he meant. "Me too."

Dry and clean and dressed, they came out and hit the kitchen, which actually had a decently-sized fridge pre-stocked with the essentials. Kate raided it for milk and Rick started a pot of decaf (because desperation, as we have noted previously, is a terrible thing).

"Where's your grandmother?"

"Taking a nap, I think. Maybe having a good cry. Not sure."

Alexis went to the bay window. She could see the old Dakota Apartments' roof line across the park. John Lennon had been murdered there, before she was even born. Her dad had been only a tween, and it broke his heart. She turned to her dad. "There's no place safe."

"We'll all end up dead, one way or another," he said quietly.

Alexis' brow crinkled. "What, no silver lining today?"

The two women stared at him. He shrugged. Then he smiled, and picked up the phone.

"Hi, Room service? I'd like to order an extra-large, double cheese combo pizza. No anchovies. And can you send up some ice cream? What flavors do you have?" He listened a moment. "All of them. No, wait, not the spumoni." He put his hand over the receiver. "Anyone want chocolate syrup?"

"Hot fudge," said Kate. "And walnuts if they have any."

"Hot fudge. Walnuts and peanuts. And we'll also need two cans of whipped cream. Yes, two entire cans. No, I don't mind. Just put it on the room tab. Yes, really, two cans. Can you please send it up while the pizza's cooking? Yeah." He chuckled. "Yes, you've got it: 'Life is uncertain... eat dessert first.' Thanks. See you soon." He hung up.

Alexis pursed her lips. "Food doesn't fix everything, Dad."

He nodded. "Sometimes there are hollow places, and it feels like nothing can fill them."

She'd expected a light-hearted response. Surprised, she bit back a sob. "I'm so scared."

He walked over to her, hesitated, looking like he wanted to cry. He didn't put his arms out, as if he was almost afraid to touch her. "Can I have a hug?"

"Wha- of course you can!" she threw her arms around his ribs. He kissed the top of her head, and whispered, "Do you think I've done ok?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he cleared his throat. "As a dad. I've tried to protect you, but here you are, holed up in a hotel room... again."

"Oh, Daddy. Really?" She looked at him reprovingly. "As Det- As Kate says, 'It's not you, it's the dirt bags." She sighed. "I'm sure that somewhere on this planet, there's a better dad, but I'm not going looking for him when I have you right here."

He held her just a little tighter, then let her go. She added, "You're not just a great dad. You're a good man. So maybe this is what you were _meant_ to do."

"Meant?"

Alexis pulled back, and looked out the window again. "Of all the goofball mystery writers in New York City, they chose to pick on _you?_ Not the smoothest move on their part." She smiled up at him. "You're probably the only person up to the challenge. It's like you were born for this. Like you've been training for something you didn't even know was going to happen."

Castle looked proudly over at Beckett. "Did you hear that?"

Beckett grinned. "Can't argue with that logic."

The doorbell rang. Kate checked the peeper. "Ice cream's here." The cart rolled in with a little tower of six hand-packed silver ice cream buckets. The waitress wore a cute little pillbox hat and red jacket. She posed, spokes-model style. "Six flavors of ice cream. Warmers for hot fudge and caramel, _two_ cans of whipped cream as specified, walnuts, peanuts, almonds..."

"Jimmies!" Kate grinned. "We didn't think to ask for those."

Rick's stomach rumbled, and Alexis patted it. "Go forth and conquer."


	27. Chapter 27

Writing stuff like this makes me really wish I had a dog.**  
**Tomorrow is the Season 7 Castle preview, which will, I hope, be full of delight, suspense, and surprises. I'm so grateful to all the writers and readers who've made this summer pass in such a very entertaining and fulfilling fashion. Cheers to every Castle fan! :-)

**Too Soon Chapter 27 - Swan Song**

_"...In the early morning, the wicked Queen went to the bathing place, which was made of white marble, furnished with soft cushions and carpeted with the most splendid rugs. She took three toads, kissed them, and said to the first:_

_'Squat on Elise's head, when she bathes, so that she will become as torpid as you are.'_

_To the second she said, 'Squat on her forehead, so that she will become as ugly as you are, and her father won't recognize her.' And to the third, she whispered, 'Lie against her heart, so that she will be cursed and tormented by evil desires.'_

_Thereupon the Queen dropped the three toads into the clear water, which at once turned a greenish color. She called Elise, made her undress, and told her to enter the bath. When Elise went down into the water, one toad fastened himself to her hair, another to her forehead, and the third against her heart. But she did not seem to be aware of them, and when she stood up three red poppies floated on the water. If the toads had not been poisonous, and had not been kissed by the witch, they would have been turned into red roses. But at least they had been turned into flowers, by the mere touch of her head and heart. She was too innocent and good for witchcraft to have power over her..."_

* * *

**June 21, 10:30 p.m., South Bronx**

Down in the basement dance studio, Elise Mowry was literally performing her swan song. She knew instinctively that This Was It. Her three captors had been oddly indulgent with her that afternoon, letting her sleep in until four then watch a Julia Roberts romcom, bringing her favorite food – iced coffee, sliced beef pho and a lemongrass chicken banh mi from a local Vietnamese/Italian restaurant, even massaging her legs and back, which were sore for a number of reasons. They didn't let her eat much – no bloating allowed! - but she did get to drink the whole coffee. That might have been a mistake on their part. She had energy to burn, but she was a bit shaky. She'd stretched and warmed up all afternoon. She was now dancing the part of Odette, the Swan Princess. This is a spoiler: Odette dies at the end. Elise was torn between doing it perfectly to buy herself time, and botching her performance to buy herself time. But honestly, these goons didn't know enough about true ballet to tell the difference. Maybe it didn't matter. All she knew was, she didn't want to die.

Over the weeks, Elise's assailants had taken a lot of still pictures of her. Many of them looked like erotic Gothic fantasies, with herself as the fragile, damaged, doll-like heroine, and the three of them in different menacing costumes, their faces never shown. Lots of craft-store crows and skulls, artificial fog, cobwebs, candelabras, fake stone sacrificial plinths. Lots of fake blood, and sometimes real blood and tears, always hers. And they'd taken plenty of video, too, much of it with the refined aesthetics of a 1980s Meat Loaf video.

She had a feeling that of the three of them, Bob Jones and Bill Smith and Ronald (_"Call me Ronald!"_) Brown, Bill Smith was the least eager to kill her, because she really did have a few miles left on her before they made the snuff film. But it seemed that outside forces were closing in, and the three men were just a tick past their usual paranoia.

Sexually, Jones (aka Thomas Garrett) was the most vicious, and he likely would have killed her – slowly – soon after her kidnapping. The others often held him back, and he pouted about it, glaring at her in a different and more speculative way. His was the death metal aesthetic that tinged most of their videos, although he looked like a surbuban dad: wire rim glasses, khakis, polo shirts. So fucking normal – unrecognizable from his Junior Class of 84 high school photo which showed a mile of crimped black hair and a black leather, studded jacket. Jones learned to blend in; he had a wife Sadie (Haha! Really!) and daughter Rebecca somewhere in Queens and drove a used Honda Accord. Sadie (Haha! Really!) liked to shop as an outlet for stress. Jones liked to act out violent fantasies with women half his size. Sadie put up with his "going to the club" three nights a week and his "volunteer time" all day Saturday, because he paid the bills, and he seemed to be better in bed when he had this little social outlet. "Whatever floats your boat," she'd say. Sadie liked it a little kinky, she worked as a dental technician, and people tended to notice when he left marks. So he had to restrain himself. He wasn't able to spend as much time there as the other two men. He had even taken a couple of days off from tending to Elise due to the annual setup of his doughboy pool in the back yard, because Becky liked to invite her little friends in their little bikinis over to swim. He made a point of supervising all her pool parties.

Ronald Brown was the one with the worst social skills. His real name was Steven Montclaire, but his current ID and the name on his paycheck was Lawrence Beams, where he insisted that everyone call him Lawrence, not Larry. He tended to get overexcited and shoot off too fast, which would have been a blessing if he didn't blame Elise for it: and she tried, she really did try to stay as still as possible. He lived fairly close by, in a shared studio a few blocks from his work as a sausage factory manager. He'd bitch to his cohorts about work, about how he'd like to chop Emilio to pieces and strangle Velma with a sausage casing and force-feed Enzo to death from the feeder. Had he used his work to dispose of bodies? When he met new people (which was rare) the question would invariably come up: "So, how _are_ sausages made?" "Never ask," he'd wink, and chuckle nastily, and take a slug from his can of Pabst. He preferred petite girls, and visited Thailand regularly, where he could get them cheap. He refused to eat meat in Thailand, though. He always covered the night shift, since he worked regular hours and didn't have a family to observe his comings and goings. Otherwise, frankly, he wasn't much use except as a grunt.

Bill Smith thought of himself as a warrior-poet, with a degree in communications and a stint as a radio operator in the Army (honorable discharge). He'd seen Billy Jack 17 times, and Enter the Dragon? Well, if CDs could wear out, his would have. He considered himself an entertainment impresario, running his own little business selling self-defense videos, many of them containing information that would actually make a target more likely to be harmed or kidnapped by an assailant. He was obsessed with weapons, surveillance, and the martial arts. He was the one with the video equipment, the talent with electronics, and the patience to record take after take after take. He'd studied Brazilian JiuJitsu for years, and it was he who had physically disabled Elise and gotten her into the van when they kidnapped her. It was he who usually raped her on camera, always wearing a mask. Sometimes he dressed as a ninja, sometimes a beast or demon, sometimes in heavy makeup and a wig. But he had the best body of the three, by far, so he made the best model, although Jones had the best package for close-up work. The only one with tats was Jones, and it was just fuzzy dice and "Sadie" on his upper bicep. Smith always insisted on covering any prominent moles or scars with makeup; Elise's face was never shown full-on, usually veiled or at least half-masked, her lip-line altered with heavy makeup. They sold the videos by subscription to an elite circle of buyers.

Smith had met the other two men – and 3XK for that matter – through his business. He'd ventured a regular correspondence when they gave him glowing reviews (and in a couple of instances, technical pointers). It had taken years to establish trust between them. Now they hadn't heard from 3XK since the crash, which could mean he was dead, and could mean he was underground. They'd watched the press conference over and over, arguing: Smith insisted the woman identified as "Kelly Nieman" was a plant, but the others pointed out she was the right height and weight with great legs, and when the cops yanked her wig off, her hair was exactly the same shade of red underneath.

Against Smith's better judgment, he and Brown had, as contracted with 3XK, continued the press of intimidation against Castle's family: attacking the cleaning lady, stealing her key, getting into Castle's loft during the press conference and having the balls to go back and leave a note. Brown thought it was hilarious, and he was also anxious to please 3XK. Smith thought it was asking for trouble, but since 3XK owned the building and was funding the operation, he had to toe the line. Really, thinking back on it, they should've killed the cleaning lady, Anna Ramirez, as a warning. Maybe they could leave Elise Mowry's body at her house too. That would really yank Castle's arrogant chain.

Elise had been named by her mother for a fairy-tale princess. She'd read Andersen's tale "The Wild Swans" over and over. Her namesake had faced down toads and zombies, blistered hands, lost her brothers brothers to enchantment, and never lost her own sense of self, nor her faith. Now as a young adult who'd spent most of her life sheltered in dance classes, Elise's faith was tested, minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, day-by-day. And she was not going to let these men in. They called her things like "Sugar" and "Sweetness" and "Sexy" and, when she didn't cooperate, "You Little Bitch." But in her own mind and heart, when she danced, she was Princess Elise. When she posed, she was Princess Elise. When the Three Toads, as she thought of them, touched her, or hurt her, or invaded her body, even when they made it feel things she didn't want to feel and do things she didn't want to do, she was Princess Elise. Inviolable. She rose into the sky in a net of woven reeds, carried by loving swans over the stormy ocean, floating above the sharp rocks. She moved from pain, to pain, to pain, and she remained Elise.

**June 21, 10:09 p.m.**

Kate was asleep on her side, her clean hair still damp, spread out a little on the firm pillow. The evening was balmy and smelled deliciously of rain and the last whiff of hot fudge. Rick pulled away from her, tucked the covers around her back, and bolstered her with pillows. She stirred a moment, and he murmured, "It's all right. Sleep." Just in case she awoke, he left a note on his own pillow: "Out for drinks w/ Espo, back b4 midnight."

He dressed all in black, covered his shoulder holster with a leather jacket, picked up the plastic laundry bag full of whipped-cream-and-fudge-sauce-sticky towels from the bathroom, and took that out with him to the hallway. It was an old hotel, and ants could be an issue in summer, so it was the least he could do. He dropped it off at the housekeeping station on the first floor, and asked for a fresh set to be delivered to the bridal suite in the morning. Leticia Gutierrez, on laundry duty, half-glanced at the bag and suppressed a sigh.

Despite his rather forbidding appearance: a cast, a scar peeking out from under a newsboy cap, and a slight limp – he gave her such a winning smile. "They're sticky, but it's just hot fudge sauce. We had a little, uh, ice cream party."

She nodded at him speculatively, then said, "Well, that's a relief."

"How so?"

"We had a heroin-addict rock star staying here on tour last week."

Castle winced. "God. I am so sorry. It wasn't, uh, our room?"

"Oh! No, honey, we still can't rent it out, the carpet needs replaced."

Castle whipped out his wallet and handed her $40 crisp. "Don't work too hard, Lettie." And he was gone.

She smiled to herself. "That bride's a lucky girl."

* * *

•  
**June 21, 10:30 p.m.**

Jackson met with him in the lobby. Similarly dressed in black, the older man said, "Esposito's already along for the ride."

"Heard from Mo?"

"He'll meet us there."

"Good."

There are areas of the South Bronx that have never recovered from the recession, 'urban renewal', and rash of fires during the 70s: blocks and blocks of burned-out buildings, housing projects that were never finished or that were finished and slowly torn apart by the people who were packed into them tighter than sardines, failed businesses and shells of government buildings and empty warehouses.

Rick had asked his mother about it, but she wasn't much help. "Where did I go to preschool?"

"Oh, dear, I don't remember now. It was a Head Start school, maybe Little Seedlings, Little Twigs. Leafy Shoots? Little Bugs? Something leafy or buggy. I don't remember. You went to four preschools and I haven't set foot in the Bronx since 1977. Onward and upward, Darling." She really didn't want to think about preschool. Or Michael. She beat a hasty retreat to the hotel spa.

He'd tried looking up the preschool online, but it wasn't exactly the sort of information people tended to care about. Even the Head Start administration, which was eternally short on funding, didn't have sufficient manpower to look it up in the paper archives, which were warehoused someplace in DC.

He tried to remember his teachers: Miss Shanita and Miss Janie. Jamie? He'd never known their last names. Like all small children, he thought they just lived there, that they lived for him, that they were kept in little boxes and came out to play when the children arrived. When he had a chance to look over his preschool file in the box he brought back from his storage barn, he found only a hand-written note from Shanita: "Little Richard tends to wander off. Touches things without asking. Sweet boy with an amazing imagination! It's a pleasure to have him in our class." There were a few crayon drawings. Stick-figure Richard and his mother, in front of their brownstone, with a tree and a sun. Stick figures, putting mail in the blue box. Taking the bus, having to write B16 in the sky because the route number wouldn't fit on the rectangular sign he'd drawn. The B16 had been rerouted any number of times depending on construction and the consolidation of different routes, then retired altogether. There was another drawing. The dancing ladies.

* * *

•

**South Bronx, March 27, 1973, 4 p.m.**

Richard was home, sitting at the coffee table with his crayons, drawing the dancing ladies. Mostly legs: brown legs, tan legs, pink legs, beige legs, almost-black and almost-white, and colored tights too: purple, yellow, green, red, pink. Short, long, thick, thin, muscular, bony, all beautiful, in motion, full of power and the remote magical grace of womanhood. Legs from a boy's-eye view, lined up at the barre, a wavy line of floating wraparound skirts all blended together – only one of them white and ruffly. He usually drew dogs and dinosaurs and ray-guns, but for some reason, the dancing ladies must have impressed him mightily, and this drawing impressed Martha enough to keep it. The crayon drawing evoked a vivid memory: a warm spring afternoon. Dancers.

He'd gone down the stairs from the playground, playing hide-and-seek with Michael, when they were still brand-new friends. Before Michael saw Martha and recognized her, before Michael hurt the kitten, before Michael tried to kill him. There was a dance studio in the basement. The music had lured him, the dancers enthralled him. the clean sweaty smell of dancing women (so different from boys playing basketball), arms moving in slow motion, the graceful necks, the eyes, the smiles when they all turned to him. "Awww, he's so _cute_!"

"What are you doing here, little guy?"

Richard had been overcome with shyness, staring wide-eyed. He'd just shrugged slightly, dipped his chin, and smiled up at them through long lashes, which had its usual effect:

"Awww!"

Richard hadn't even heard Michael calling for him.

Michael had come down the stairs, crying. "Where'd you go? You left me!"

Little Richard did what almost-four-year-old-boys do before the Boy Code kicks in: he hugged little Michael. Ovaries pinging wildly, the dance class went nuts.

The lead dancer – the lady in white ruffles – took them both by the hands and gave them a ride in the elevator, back up to the preschool classroom where Miss Shanita was doing a panicked head-count. Miss Shanita had a fit. "Where you been, you scared me half to death!" She hugged them, then benched them ("Never wander off like that again!"), and they sat together, scowling at each other, until Rick's sitter came to pick him up.

All little Richard could think of was that dancing ladies were even better than hiding backstage at one of Mother's plays.

* * *

**South Bronx, June 21, 2014, 11:02 p.m.**

What did the sign in the studio say? Castle couldn't remember. He pulled out his phone and ran a search. "Bronx Ballet." Nothing.

As he sat in the back of the van, putting on a fake beard, wig, and hat, he closed his eyes. They sometimes heard faint music through the floorboards at naptime. Not always classical, sometimes it was a thumping, funky bass. Sometimes outside he'd see the graceful girls leaving in twos and threes, or with their strong, tall-as-trees boyfriends, sometimes see the couples laughing and dancing on the sidewalk.

Not just ballet, then. Modern? Jazz. Early hip-hop?

Search: Bronx Dance 1970s: 23,200,000 results. _Shit._

Search. "South Bronx Dance." _Origins of hip hop. Burned dance hall. Nope._

What did the sign say? He sighed. It just wasn't coming to the surface; he hadn't been quite able to sound out longer words yet. Hell, the building might have been burned down in the fires, sign or no sign. He felt a leaden weight in his belly. _Wrong track. Stupid hunch. Fuck,_ he'd brought all these people out here for nothing. But a little voice, little Rosie's voice, said in his mind, _"Just find her. Hurry."_

The van came to a stop, and he sat frozen in shame, his heart beating too hard. He felt like a complete idiot. He had no idea where to start, except, _"Somewhere in the South Bronx."_

The back door of the van opened, streetlight burst in, and he was met with an explosion of wiggling doggy love, his entire face engulfed in slobbery eau-du-Alpo, his fake beard a bit askew, his hat knocked off. He had to laugh, while Mohammed Atah called out "Damn it, Betsy! Heel!" Mo pulled back hard on the leash and Betsy sat obligingly, now that she'd declared her undying affection and checked Rick's pockets for bacon (there had been a smear of grease on his pinkie from earlier in the day). He did smell, very faintly, of whipped cream behind the ear, in a place he'd missed scrubbing. And he smelled like sex with Pillow Case Kate, who was definitely pregnant and doing just fine.

Betsy also smelled a whiff – only the faintest whiff on his jacket sleeve – of Kelly Nieman. This concerned her a little, but not unduly. There are people upon whom evil can rub off easily, as black dog hair is naturally attracted to white carpeting. Rick was not a white wool carpet. He was Snuggly-but-not-itchy plaid blanket for going-on-a-picnic and falling-asleep-in-the-back-seat.

Rick climbed out of the van feeling oddly better, and Esposito produced a few evidence bags. He had three items: a pair of white dance tights from Elise Mowry, a sleep-shirt from Tiffany Ross (lavender, with hearts and a cartoon skunk), and the typed piece of paper from Anna Ramirez' dining room table, for no other reason than Esposito had a hunch of his own. Mo acquainted Betsy with the three artifacts. There was a hint of Rick's scent from the paper since he'd opened the ream and filled the paper tray, plus had occasionally cleaned eraser crumbs off the rolling typewriter platen with his fingertips. Betsy knew it was Rick's paper. It was the other scent, the man who'd typed on the paper and tucked a similar piece under Alexis' mattress while she was out... that man was bad. Bad, bad, bad man.

She had three people clearly in mind now:

Elise Mowry, who was 22, of French and Danish extraction, and loved to dance so much that she was underweight and had stopped ovulating;

Tiffany Ross, who was 23, pre-diabetic, overconsumed diet soda, had a Corgi mutt and three cats, and lived alone with her mother; and

Steven H Montclaire, aka Ronald Brown, 46, 5'10", 180 lbs, a convicted sex offender wanted for kidnapping, seven counts of rape, three counts of annoying a minor, four counts of breaking and entering, three counts of burglary, one count carjacking, four counts aggravated assault, two counts felony child endangerment, twenty-three counts child pornography, five counts of stalking, two counts of cyber-stalking... Betsy didn't know the words, but she knew his smell. She'd smelled it on five of the bodies – or pieces of bodies - they found in Long Island, and another shallow grave they'd found in Connecticut... Just that little whiff on that piece of typed paper made Betsy's hackles rise. She went stiff and quiet.

Mo said, "Uh-oh." He stroked her face and jaw. "You don't like this guy, do ya, Bets?"

Rick got the eerie feeling that she was about to start growling.

Mo said, "Betsy. Ready? Set."

She sat and licked her chops.

"GO!" And she was casting about, head down, her ears sweeping the dirty sidewalk, walking quickly. Hints, but nothing sure. The four men walked along, even Rick with his slight residual limp easily keeping up with her. But emotionally for Castle, it was hard going. The South Bronx had changed so very much, and so had he: it was night-time. As a very small boy, he'd only passed through in daylight (at least, when he was awake). He'd been just over 3'5"; now he was 6'2", and it was 38 years later. Everything was smaller, or darker, or burned down, or built over. Once again, he felt stupid. He stumbled over something in the sidewalk and swore, then stopped.

It was a recessed bolt in the pavement; there were four total in a square, each about 24" from the other. It was near a the southwest intersection of a two-land and a four-lane street. He looked around, and said, "Stop a second."

"Heel, Betsy." Mo gave her a treat; she licked his hand, then to his surprise, she moved over to Rick and did The Lean against his leg.

Rick's hand went absently to knead and caress the soft, furry wrinkles at the bridge of her nose. Then he got down stiffly on his knees, and reached up to something none of the others could see: an imaginary mailbox. He glanced up at a metal pole with an empty bracket where a bus route sign had once hung.

"That cigarette store was a corner market. The phone store was, it was... a TV and radio repair place. They replaced the awning with a different shape... Next door, the place that's boarded up, it was a barber shop. I loved to watch the barber pole spin. See the brackets?"

"Yeah. I'll be damned," said Esposito. "Bro, you ain't makin' this up!"

Rick shook his head. From closer to the ground, this was so much easier. "We'd get off the bus here, and sometimes Mother would have me put letters or bills in the post box. The blue kind, with the pulldown door. It made a booming noise when it closed. Across the way, I don't remember what was there, but that building's vintage, what, 1990 or so?"

Betsy was watching him, leaning hard. _"You got this, Rick." _She mumbled something like "Mwumpfh."

"My knee's freezing up," he admitted impatiently. Jackson took his son's left wrist and helped him stand in a manly fashion. From across the intersection red and blue lights swept across them, a siren booped, and then a white light dazzled their eyes as a patrol car pulled alongside.

"Hands where I can see them, fellas," said the shotgun uni. The four of them squinted a little, and Esposito identified himself.

"Ok if I pull out my badge?"

"Take it slow."

Espo nodded, held badge and ID out, and the officer examined it, peering with curiosity at his fake pornstar mustache, which didn't match the ID photo – but that was a couple years old and the light was low. "Twelfth precinct? What the hell you doin' out here?" He seemed friendly enough about it. In fact, if anything, his pornstar mustache was bigger than Esposito's.

Mo said, "Takin' the dog for a walk." He handed Kavakian his card and badge.

Kavakian shone the flashlight in Mo's face. "Mohammed Atah? Seriously?"

Mo shrugged. He'd perfected this air of weary geniality. It was a survival mechanism based on sharing a name (although not quite the same spelling) with one of the most notorious and hated criminals ever to hijack a plane. "Black sheep of the family." He bent a little toward Betsy, and caressed the loose skin on the back of her neck. She stood and gave him The Lean, crowding against his knee, thumping her tail gently. He wasn't supposed to let her lean, but it made them both feel better.

Seeing Betsy's harness, although she wasn't wearing a vest, it was logical to conclude she was a service dog. "She's a beauty. Where you based? C'mere, Sweetie." Mo urged Betsy forward, she sniffed Officer Kavakian's hand to suss him out. _(Armenian extraction, both male and female lovers, lives in Brooklyn, is partial to sour-apple-flavored hard candy, uses depilatory cream to remove unwanted body hair.)_

Jackson volunteered, "We're headed out for a few brews at the steakhouse on Longwood."

The unis exchanged a look and wrinkled their noses. The driver pulled out a card – Patrol Officer Tung "Charlie" Nguyen - and handed it to Esposito. "They water their drinks. Go to Luigi's. BEST samwiches. My cousin owns it. Tell Tuy at the bar I sent you."

Espo grinned. "Your cousin's named Luigi?"

"Nope, it's Hieu Nguyen. Married old Luigi's granddaughter Angela in 2009."

Espo shrugged. Castle said, "I bet the wedding was epic."

"Reception lasted two days."

Mo said, "Hey, does Luigi's have lobster rolls?"

Betsy moaned.

The patrol car's radio squawked about a 211. "Gotta serve. Stay outta trouble." They turned the corner and roared off south.

They turned up Fox Street and walked a couple of blocks, and suddenly Rick found himself speeding up. "This feels familiar."

Esposito's phone buzzed in his back pocket. "Beckett wants to know if you're with me. Says she found your note."

Castle sighed "Busted," nodded, and pulled out his phone, stepping away to the corner. Betsy yipped in frustration.

"Hey, Beckett."

"I woke up to pee and found your note. Where'd you guys go?"

"I stopped by the precinct and met up with Esposito for a beer. Jackson's with us, too." He shouldn't have said that. He didn't want her to worry. "Don't worry." The three other men looked at him as if he was a complete moron. Even the dog groaned.

Beckett's voice sounded clipped. "Castle..."

"Whoa, it's my turn for darts-" here, Betsy barked impatiently – she'd caught a whiff of something - he motioned Mo to quiet her down. "I'll call you back in a few minutes."

Kate glared at her phone. She hadn't heard any music or crowd noise. "Where are you playing darts? The pound? _Castle_?"

_Click_.

* * *

**Saturday, June 21, 11:16 p.m., Brooklyn**

Kevin Ryan's phone rang. He rolled over and slapped himself in the face with it. "Mryan."

It was Beckett. "Oh, God, Kev, did I wake you?"

"No, no, sup?" He never said _wassup, _let alone_ sup_. Dead giveaway. He stumbled out of the bedroom and passed Jenny, sprawled on the couch with the baby nestled on her chest, both of them sacked out and drooling

"Can we run a tracer on Espo's phone? I have a bad feeling."

"Yeah, sure. I'll call it in if you don't want to." He poured himself a glass of chocolate milk, because Jenny wasn't awake to talk him out of it, then added a heaping teaspoon of instant coffee, because nobody was there to laugh at him, and sucked it down before calling the precinct.

**June 21, Three Crowns Hotel, 11:18 p.m.**  
Kate got dressed, grabbed her badge and gun and another slice of pizza out of the fridge, and picked off the pepperoni into the trash – it had made her feel a little weird. She called a town car and headed to the Twelfth.

* * *

**June 21, 12th Precinct, 11:32 p.m.**

Tori Ellis was there, working late, sifting through endless files on possible kidnappers, and the web of associations Steven Montclaire (aka Ronald Brown) had assembled into a loose ring of genuinely creepy porn purveyors. It was depressing work, stuff she didn't want to see, and it made her mad as all hell. It was a relief to take the call from Ryan, and it was easy enough to track Esposito down in the South Bronx. Ryan said, "He's not on duty."

Tori said, "Maybe he's visiting a friend. Does he have a girlfriend?" Her voice sounded a little too casual. Ryan wondered if she knew about Lanie.

"Not in the South Bronx, he doesn't," Ryan said. "Keep an eye on it. I'll be in soon."

Kate Beckett came striding in a few minutes later, on the phone to Ryan. "Hey," she said. "Don't even come up. Can you have the car ready to go? Good. Thanks, I'll be down in a minute."

She leaned over Tori's shoulder, looking at the neighborhood. "What are you guys looking for?" she murmured. It was mixed use: light industrial, small commercial, car washes, body shops, a garden statuary yard, storage, shipping and receiving, and a whole lot of abandoned housing projects and empty lots with occasional pockets of gentrification. The South Bronx? She'd half-heard Castle talking about preschool, about Michael and the preschool, about playing on the monkey bars... "Tori, show me the parks in the area. Any old parks that fell by the wayside in urban renewal? Old schoolyards?"

* * *

**June 21, South Bronx, 11:36 p.m.**

They walked another block, and Castle cast about like a blind man, or someone wading up to his hips in dark water.

"The playground," he whispered.

Betsy was trotting along, head up now, testing the air, sifting out traces of a million passersby over the last few months alone, just to find, who? One of the girls? The bad man? Mo stopped her and gave her the scents again, reminding her. She cast about, and... THERE. She could smell Montclaire on the breeze, smell a handprint he'd left on the door at this corner bodega four days ago – Zadi's Stop &amp; Save - when he went to buy a carton of half-and-half and a banana for the girl, who had a leg cramp. She could smell the girl, too, Elise Mowry, on his hand print. He'd been touching her. He'd been hurting her. Elise was too scared. Elise was dying inside.

Betsy went a little nuts then, snuffling at the door. She growled, then her jowls swept aside the cigarette butts and chewing gum wrappers on the sidewalk in front of Zadi's. She made Mo's favorite noise: "BORU!" This was the Call of Being Sure. It was also her family's rallying cry, going back over a thousand years.

* * *

**Ireland, approximately 971 a.d.**  
Brian Boru, incidentally, was a great Irish king, who was very fond of dogs. Both Castle and Ryan were distant descendants, and Betsy was very, very distantly descended from Brian Boru's favorite wolfhound – who was actually a sight hound, huge and gangly, five thousand generations ago, whose name is now lost to history. But that was one very good dog. And the thing that made Brian Boru king? That was his memory: memory of loss, memory of music and laughter, memory serving his quest for justice. That, and his ability to inspire the people around him. His bloodline ran slim but true in both Castle and Ryan, both of whom should have been home snuggling with their respective wives.

* * *

**June 21, South Bronx, 11:36 p.m.**

Betsy invoked the Muse of Justice again. "BoRUUUU!" Rick felt his heart leap, and he turned his gaze this way and that, settling on a large, mostly-dark brick building looming over an abandoned playground. Castle's eye fixed on a tiny light like a star beaming from the side, down about two feet from the foundation. He started heedlessly across the dark street. Betsy did the same, nose to the ground, her forehead flaps hanging down over her eyes. Mo pulled her up with a curse and a shout. A Yugo rounded the corner and nearly hit Castle as he made his beeline for that little star. Jackson hauled him out of the way, and the grand tradition of mutual cursing was honored before the car lurched away in a flurry of fast food wrappers. It squealed off down the dark street, maxing out at its top speed of 46 mph as the muffler dragged and sparked on the pot-holed pavement.

Betsy heard the music first, then Esposito, though neither knew what it was called. Mo knew it as the music from the opening credits of Karloff's Mummy movie (he was a bit of a movie geek). Jackson couldn't quite catch it until they were nearly upon it, and Rick... well, he'd definitely lost some hearing acuity, so it took some time for him to sort the notes out.

"Swan Lake?" he whispered.


	28. Chapter 28

**Too Soon Chapter 28 – Thundercrack**

* * *

_She moves up, she moves back_  
_ Out on the floor there just is no one cleaner_  
_ She does this thing she calls the "Jump back Jack"_  
_ She's got the heart of a ballerina_

_ She's straight from the Bronx_  
_ Hung off the line_  
_ She slips, she slides, she slops, she bops, she bumps, she grinds_  
_ Even them dance hall hacks_  
_ From the west side of the tracks_  
_ Move in close to catch her timin'_

_ CHORUS_

_ She ain't no little girl, she ain't got no curls_  
_ Her hair ain't brown, and her eyes ain't either_  
_ Round and round and round and round_

Thundercrack - Bruce Springsteen

* * *

**June 21, South Bronx, 11:37 p.m.**

"Yeah," said Jackson. "That's Swan Lake."

Esposito said, "Hey, isn't Elise Mowry a ballerina or something?"

When Rick nodded, Betsy nearly shoved him aside, eager to get her nose snuffling at that bright little hole. Mo pulled her back, and Rick peered in – it was a mouse-hole in the boarded-up basement window, with a matching chewed corner of the old wooden window casement. The plywood was high-quality, an inch thick and applied with strong bolts on the brick walls, grouted probably before Hurricane Sandy, painted so as to deflect the urge toward grafitti and vandalism. There were no other cracks nor gaps at the edges of any of the six windows down that long wall. Lying almost on his side, peering in through the hole, Rick's angle was bad, just looking across the rafters of the large room, but he could see theatrical barn-door lights, and something swaying back and forth, turning, as if on a swivel.

Castle said, "We really need to check this out." Every instinct screamed to go in with guns blazing, but Esposito prescribed caution. "We don't know who's in there, or what they're doing. It might be an old ladies' book club playing 8-track tapes, and we don't have a warrant."

Mo said, "Betsy smells something. I'm just not sure what, or who."

The dog had her nose crammed up against the hole again. She was quiet, tense, listening, sniffing, trying to make sense of everything she heard and smelled: Vietnamese food, dry ice fog, sex, wire solder, ozone, turkey feathers... She gave the dog equivalent of _"What the hell?"_ moaning in frustration. She could hear a girl's soft sobbing right through the glass and the board, although her humans could not. She began to pace impatiently. Her tail was not a happy tail.

Jackson looked up anxiously at the building, suddenly wondering if there were any surveillance cameras. He couldn't see any. He murmured, "Recon. Back in three." His son had a tendency to stand around talking when it was time to take action. His own dad was a bit like that, must have skipped a generation.

Castle looked at Mo and Esposito. "We're venturing into vigilante territory. At this point, maybe you two should leave and call for backup."

His phone buzzed. He let it go to voice mail. Esposito's phone rang. He grimaced, looking at the screen. "It's Beckett." Rick shook his head.

The two of them, (and Jackson who was already around the corner of the building), then got texts from her. _"WHAT ARE YOU DONG IN THE BRONX." _

They couldn't help but snicker. She texted again a moment later. _"DOING. In The Bronx. At 11:40?" _

Rick sighed and texted her back. Told a partial lie. _"11:37. Ran into Mo Attah, Bloodhound Handler. Giving him Ride." _

_ "Castle, if you do anything stupid... don't." _

Next text was from Ryan. "Confirming building by playground is former preschool. Need a warrant?"

Rick and Esposito swore. Esposito texted, "Maybe backup could use it. Possible 10-22."

Kate texted. _"Any ID on vic or perp?" _

Castle sighed. _"Maybe Elise Mowry. Maybe Steven Sinclaire. Surveillance now." _

_"Wait for backup!" _This was from Ryan.

Castle texted them both back._ "You're on your way together, aren't you." _

Kate:_ "Bet your sweet ass. Tori too. Surveillance van. On Wills Bridge now."_

Castle texted Ryan:_ "She's pregnant. I don't want her on calls. Pls take her back to 12th." _

Ryan: _"She won't let me text and drive. Says you're fucking busted &amp; she's gonna kill you for trying to do this without cluing her in." _

Castle_: "Kate, I'm sorry, this can't wait for protocol." _

Beckett_: "I can text circles around your sorry ass, I have Tori trailing Espo's phone. There in 10. Wait 4 us or never have sex again."_

Rick bit his lip. She knew how to pull his strings._ "Sorry to read that. Love you, will miss the sex. Buzz me all u want, won't b picking up for a little bit. Careful." _

Jackson had gone around the building, taking photos of all the license plates in the small parking lot. He sent them to Ryan's phone, and Kate forwarded them to Tori, who was in back with the surveillance equipment. She ran quick checks on the plates: two of the vehicles – a panel side van and a 1972 Ford Maverick – had stolen plates. Tori texted, _"I got your probable cause right here, Jack ;-)" _

Jackson continued partway around the building until he encountered the chain link fence separating the parking lot from the playground. Nothing to see, so he turned back, phoning Castle. "Son, the front entrance is dark and locked. There's a motion sensor cam there, but it's the only surveillance I can see. On the other hand, they may have lipstick cams everywhere, and I don't have the equipment to pick up their feeds."

At this point he came back around the corner, walking toward the others. "I'll check the basement stairs off the playground."

He went around the building's north side. The old door, which had been half-glass, had long ago been replaced with double steel. Not easy to breach. Jackson sighed and phone Rick's burner. "Ok, if we go through the east entrance, we have to move fast; they have cams under the overhang."

Rick said, "Let me try ringing the doorbell. Wait here."

"What? Are you nuts?"

He shrugged. "Maybe they'll be curious. Maybe they don't know 3XK's dead. I saw him at the end, he'd had his face altered, and I'm in a disguise now. So there might be enough confusion to throw them off."

"I'm coming with you," said Jackson.

"No, I don't want to have to introduce you or explain you. Just come after me. Give me five minutes to..."

"...Get killed?"

"Figure out what's going on. Just five minutes, that's all I'm asking."

* * *

**11:41 p.m., East Side of Building**

When Castle mounted the steps and approached the overhang, a motion sensor light switched on. The doorway was clear, although there was a bit of trash around the edges, and graffiti smothered the slots for business names long gone. A dented grate indicated an intercom system, which was relatively new, maybe from the late 70s or early 80s. But Castle remembered the overhang and the bell-shaped light fixture. He remembered the shape of the double doors, which were still painted a very faded purple. He glanced up to see four tiny lenses mounted above the door, and in the corners behind him.

He thought, _"Shit, they're gonna want a password." _

He pushed a button, fancying he might hear a distant buzz. He waited a minute or so, but nothing happened. The light went out, so he shifted, and it switched on again. He knocked loudly with his left fist. "Come on, guys." Spoke through his nose just a little, a hint of Bronx. Like his brother. His brother the arrogant son of a bitch. He took hold of the door handle and rattled it, calling out, "_Waiting_ here."

A voice scratched on the intercom. "Where's your key?"

"Lost in the crash. You mind? Lemme in."

"Password?"

Rick hesitated. _Back to the start. Just one shot at this._ He tried to mask his fear with a show of impatience. "Hide and seek."

Lucky guess. Everything was a test with 3XK. The door buzzed, (_"Whew!"_) and he pulled it open. A weak, yellowish motion sensor light flicked on in the dark, trash-filled, stinking hallway. His preschool had been on the first floor, to the left. There was little evidence it had ever existed except for an ancient smear of green glitter paint on the wall by its entry door. He rememberd the green glitter paint. They'd made leprechaun traps for St. Patrick's Day.

To the right was the staircase – which had been boarded off, possibly as the result of a trash fire. There was an elevator, all its buttons busted out. Castle heard the rumble of the elevator, and its door opened. Two men stood before him, and he had only the barest clue of who they might be, having looked at hundreds and hundreds of mug shots. They looked at him closely.

Ronald stared at him, trying to discern the features beneath the wig and fake beard. Castle knew his eyes could go very dark when he hooded them, so he kept his chin low, his pupils shaded. "You look like hell," Ronald said.

The elevator buttons had been disabled. Bob had a key. Castle's heart sank: if the elevator was the only way in or out, that was a bottleneck right there.

Castle shrugged. "Yeah, she ran out of time to finish my face before the wedding." The elevator was achingly slow, descending on squeaky cables.

"So was that her at the press conference?"

"No. That was a plant. They got Walton when he tried to bust her out."

Bob chuckled. "I told you he was a dipshit."

Castle glared at Bob. "You have a problem with my decision?"

"No, no. No." Bob's face went slack and stupid with fear. The elevator groaned to a stop, and the door opened.

* * *

**11:43 p.m., West Side of Building**

The other three hung back, Jackson wishing like hell that he'd thought to bring wires. He didn't like having Rick go in alone like this. _"All the kid has to do is get through the door,"_ he told himself. After an agonizing minute, Esposito's hackles raised on the back of his neck. He didn't realize what it was until he heard a low, rumbling growl. Betsy was pulling on her harness, back toward that bright hole. They all heard it this time: a woman screaming, sobbing, nearly hysterical.

"No, no, stop it. I'll try harder. Let me... let me go, I'll do it again, _I'm sorry, I'll try harder. Don't!" _

They all exchanged horrified stares_. _There was no way to get into the basement unnoticed. From the fear in her voice, it sounded like she'd be dead before the police could breach the front door.

"Think he's in yet?" said Mo. Esposito scowled thoughtfully. He wasn't above breaking the rules, but he was a little tired of getting suspended. "I dunno. We..." As cops, he and Mo knew they were crazy to go in blind. Perps like this were often obsessed with firearms, explosives, booby-traps...

Jackson said, "Would that dog lead you into something she couldn't get you out of?"

Mo considered. "She's one pushy bitch when it comes to a scent she's chasing, but she's trained to recognize C4, gas, gunpowder. So..."

"That's it," Espo said. He called for backup, gave the location, and identified himself. "We're going in. Requesting SWAT and an ambulance. Unknown number of assailants, Alpha Mike Victor."

* * *

**11:46 p.m.**  
As they hurried up the steps, the 12th's surveillance van arrived. Ryan jumped out of the driver's seat, Tori out the back of the van, doling out bullet-proof vests and helmets. Kate paused, trying to hold down nausea, and emerged more slowly from the passenger side. She was pale and clammy.

Ryan said, "Did you bring any crackers?"

Kate gritted her teeth. "NO. I DID NOT BRING ANY GODDAMN CRACKERS."

Ryan blinked. "Check the glove box."

Kate leaned in toward the utility box, passed a hand over her eyes, and Ryan cuffed her wrist to the open window frame before she could even protest.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" She was utterly furious. "Espo, are you gonna let him do this to _me?_"

Espo was donning his vest. "That's not just you, that's you and everybody's baby. You direct SWAT down when they get here."

"DAMN IT!" Kate growled. But deep in her soul, she knew they were right. You just can't argue with morning sickness, even if it's 11:48 PM on a Saturday and feels like nowhere near morning. She could hear sirens in the distance. "Look, it's ok. I'll stay out of it. I'll move the van around back to intercept. Give me the key."

"Ok, if you can do it from the passenger seat." Ryan tossed his keys on the floor of the van, just out of Kate's easy reach.

"Ryan! You SON OF A ..." but the others had headed away toward the south entrance, with Mo's "Wait, _whose_ baby is it?" ringing in her ears.

Kate, cursing, set about kicking off her boot and reaching across the car with her stocking feet to access the key with her toes. "Goddamn skinny jeans," she seethed. She remembered Castle describing his own adventure, but he'd been able to get his sock off. Her toes cramped. Tears of rage and frustration came to her eyes. "The hard part is gonna be deciding who to kill first." She blinked her feelings back and silently thanked God that the van was automatic, and she was tall enough to reach the gas pedal easily. The brake? Not so much.

* * *

**11:43 p.m.**

Castle found himself in the dance studio he barely remembered from childhood. His eyes sought out the painted sign above the stage:

**"SOUTH BRONX DANCE COLLECTIVE!"**

It was now faded, cracked, and water-stained, but memory rushed in: the sunlit room, the dancers, the tinny practice piano and the smell of sweat and perfume. Only now the room was dark and mildewed, lined with graffiti. There were layers of drape, and a scrim with a projected image of moonlight on water, washed-out by the overhead house lights. A trace of artificial fog hovered above the battered dance floor.

Off to the side was a sort of curtained alcove. Castle could hear voices. He strode to the curtain as if he owned the place, then realized that if his sleeve drifted up, any of these goons would notice the fancy mesh cast on his arm, and it had been prominent at the press conference. He put his hand in his pocket. "Get the curtain, would you?"

Ronald rolled his eyes and opened the curtain on its frame, drawling, "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Watch it," snarled Castle.

On the bed sat a small, slim blonde woman. Her feet, dangling off the side, ended in pink goatskin ballet slippers. She wore a white tutu and a little swan-wing circlet on her head. Where a ballerina would normally wear her hair in a bun, Elise's hung in sweaty locks that clung to her face, long neck, and narrow shoulders. Her face was painted a blotchy white with little cracks, with exaggerated blush and bee-stung lips. Her eyes were blacked out, like a skull or a broken doll. She was crying, the makeup running down her neck and jaw, onto her chest and the glimmering bodice of her dress.

Next to her sat Castle's biggest problem: at first he thought he was hallucinating, for there was Mephistopheles in the flesh, pulling away from kissing the woman. Meph had curving goat horns, hoofed feet, claws... oh, wait, no tits, no codfish, no snake-up-the-butt. No, it was just a jerk in a bad demon suit.

Then 'Bill Smith' looked up at Castle. He was wearing contacts with slit pupils and little flames. They seemed to obscure his vision slightly. "You're a couple weeks early."

Looking more closely under the makeup, Castle thought he recognized Herbert Zwolinsky, a bogus martial arts instructor, from moments of unintentional hilarity on Youtube. Bill – Zwolinsky - had his arm around Elise's bony shoulders, and her small hand folded into his. He said to Elise, "You trust me. I'll handle this." She had a split lip.

Castle fought the urge to vomit, or to take out his gun and blow these three men away without another word. "Things didn't go as planned."

"Obviously," Bill said. "Did you see the stuff we've put out already?" He squeezed Elise's bare, bruised thigh above her stocking top. "This one's a natural."

Castle shook his head. "Don't have time. I'll have a look later. I'm taking her now."

Jones said, "Wait, what? No. Not now. We just... Look, Brown just boffed her twenty minutes ago."

Smith was panicking. He stood up and unconsciously wiped his hand on his pleather demon chaps. "Our DNA's all over her. We were supposed to have her till the end of the month. _Then_ she's yours."

"Yeah," said Brown. "That's what we agreed."

Elise shook her head, speaking to the man she thought was 3XK in a small voice. "They told me they were gonna kill me tonight, once they're done with the close-ups," she sniffled.

Jones snarled, "Shut up."

Rick said, "Really."

Brown said, "No, we, I.." He was obviously very much afraid of 3XK from past experience. He looked like he was going to pee a little.

Bill said, "That wasn't a foregone decision. I for one..."

"Let's call this Plan C." Castle pulled his gun from the concealed shoulder holster. He was nearly as good a shot with his left hand as his right, and this was close quarters, so he wasn't too worried. "Move away from the girl."

Elise hid her head under her arms, rocking. "Oh, God, no, no, no..."

* * *

**11:48 p.m.**

The elevator hummed to life. Castle was as surprised as anyone, then he remembered he had Jackson Hunt along, and Jackson Hunt seemed to have a way with things that plug in, and things that open and close, and while it might be more bad guys, it might also be the good guys he'd left on the west side of the building. But as Castle's attention momentarily flickered, Smith took a dive at him, and apparently he'd noticed Castle's limp, for he went straight for the bad knee. However, Smith had fake horns attached securely to his head, and he was wearing platform demon boots, so he misjudged the angle somewhat. Castle dodged Bill, but was afraid to fire so close to Elise. Stumbling off-balance, he turned shoulder to her, forgetting something really important:

_**Stockholm syndrome.**_

* * *

**June 21, 11:49 p.m.**

As far as Elise Mowry knew, Bill Smith was the _"One Least Likely to Kill Me Now"_, so he was her best hope. Now 3XK had his back to her, wanting to keep her all to himself, with his gun trained on Bill, who lay on the floor, stunned, his leather codpiece half-off, his ankle twisted, his satanic horns knocked spinning. She had no idea who was coming down in the elevator, but she thought she heard barking, although for all she knew it was the sound of eleven wild swans coming home, the way it echoed off the old stainless steel walls. Her only goal was to stay alive until she earned her freedom.

Seeing her chance, Elise jumped at Castle from behind, fast as lightning, her strength as a ballerina matched by her staunch resistance to a horrible demise. She yanked at Castle's hat and wig, hanging off his body, trying by any means to disarm him. She ripped his fake beard off (some skin, too) and he heard her teeth snap just shy of his right ear over the sound of his own yelp of pain. Castle was hampered by his right arm cast, but he had one very good move, and he used it instinctively, not fully realizing it was actually Elise attacking him.

He elbowed Princess Elise in the nose.

With a cry, she went flying (fortunately landing back on the bed) and he turned back to her in horror as his gun clattered to the ground. She stared at him. With a short-stubble haircut, a scar, and the fake beard gone, Castle looked rather less like the man who'd identified himself as Jerry Tyson a few weeks back.

Castle dithered, torn between fighting Bill and checking on her. "Sorry!" he grimaced, and took an unconscious step toward her as she cupped a hand over her gushing nose. His expression somehow reminded her of her dad. "Elise, are you..."

She was struck by the genuine concern and remorse on Castle's face, and the realization that he was there not to kill her, but to get her out. She interrupted him, too late. "Look out!"

* * *

The next chapter's a lot more fun. I promise.


	29. Chapter 29

_**Special thanks/shout out to Way Outta My League for a little tiny key to the puzzle that is Richard Castle.  
Read her amazing &amp; fun, somewhat AU fic, 8th Wonder. She's funny as hell. :-)**_

Also, if you wonder what's going on with the whole swan thing,  
I think Hans Christian Andersen was probably on some serious hallucinogens.  
The Wild Swans might be his greatest story. Don't tell Disney.

* * *

_**Too Soon Chapter 29: Eleven Fifty Nine**_

_Pumping like a fugitive in cover from the night  
Take it down the freeway like a bullet to the ocean  
Wait until the morning, take tomorrow by the hand  
Take it down the highway like a rocket to the ocean, we can run_

_Today can last another million years_  
_Today could be the end of me_  
_It's 11:59, and I want to stay alive_

_Hanging on a frequency and burning like a fire_  
_Boy you've got the motion down, it's getting late, I'm tired and I've lost control_  
_Don't leave me here, time is running out_  
_Take me down the highway like a rocket to the ocean, we can run_

_11:59 - Blondie_

* * *

**June 22, 11:50 p.m.**

The three kidnappers, realizing they weren't dealing with 3XK after all, jumped Castle – Brown and Jones on his arms, Smith landing punch after punch on his midsection. Castle kicked out hard, his weight pulling the two men down as his heels pounded into Bill's chest. Bill flew back, wheezing, then drew a wicked-looking buck knife from a sheath on his belt. He chuckled nastily, his fake demon nose falling off, sweat melting his cheap Halloween store makeup.

"You might as well give up now. Less pain in the long run."

The elevator cables whirred in the shaft. Castle spat a little blood – he now had a split lip of his own, and his stomach ached. He was glad it had been a long time since the hot fudge sundae. "You expecting anyone? Cops, maybe?" Jones and Brown looked at one another anxiously and dropped Rick, who staggered back and fell on his butt.

Of all the crazy things, Elise laughed. "You hear that? My brothers. They're coming for me." She scrambled away from the bed, sprinted, and launched herself up the aerial silk in the middle of the room, climbing up by sheer strength of her spindly, wrought-iron limbs, nearly to the ceiling to get away from the fight, leaving bloody handprints on the fabric.

Jones took off running for the double metal doors at the north end of the building. Brown made for a big table with a pile of equipment on it, opened a drawer, and pulled a gun of his own. He stood undecided – shoot whoever was coming out of the elevator, or make a run out the double doors?

Smith leered at Castle and slashed at him repeatedly, driving him back; Rick dodged back and sideways, heading for the middle of the room, more-or-less toward the elevator.

Smith didn't think much of Castle's technique. "Idiot. There's things you can't learn from reading a book."

Emulating the sweetly-smiling Indiana Jones just before he punches the Nazi truck driver, he said, "True, but there's a lot to learn from doing a summer boot camp with a Special Ops trainer."

Smith wavered, then chuckled. "Kai-Rhee Evans? She's no Chuck Norris."

Castle nodded. "Good thing." He drew his hands into fists, his stance that of a boxer. He tried to look like a person overconfident of a skill he shouldn't be using, which was not that hard considering its theoretical possibility. Smith took this boxing stance as a telegraph, but as he came in for another slash at Castle's jugular (something of a specialty) the writer used his right, casted wrist to stop the inside of Smith's arm, smacking the back of Smith's hand such that his fingers opened, and the knife skittered off toward the wall. Then Castle ducked back behind Smith, who was forced to turn and follow him. Castle hooked an arm around Smith's neck in a choke-hold; Smith dropped then pushed back hard, and Castle fell backward (and he sure was sick of that sensation). His head smacked the old wooden dance floor.

* * *

**11:53:02 p.m., or eternity, or somewhere in between. No time like the present? **

•

Little white birds. Then, for the very briefest moment, a little boy was standing over him, naked. One of his arms was missing, and instead, he had the living wing of a white swan. He was about ten years old, with sad brown eyes and wavy brown hair. The boy was crying. Next to him stood Petrus. Petrus looked at the boy. "So, Michael, you see what you've done?"

"Get up, Rick. Please, just breathe and get up. You can do this. She needs you."

"Michael?" he scowled at Petrus, furious. "That's just not fair."

Petrus said, "Do you blame a crystal glass for being broken? You're not the one who decides. You just have to do what you can, Richard."

Mephistopheles stood at Rick's feet. "I wouldn't pick it up and glue it back together, either."

"You would if you had the time, and the skill, and the right glue," said Petrus.

Meph shrugged, his claws spread wide. "Nnnnnope."

"This just... _sucks_," said Rick.

"Please. Forgive me." The boy reached out a hand to pull him up. For a moment his expression shifted to devious, cold... no. "Malevolent's a good word, Rick. I'm sure it's in your lexicon somewhere." There was a knife in his hand, and he was kneeling over Rick, prepared to cut his throat.

Petrus sighed, and Mephistopheles' claws opened into a red and sparking net that snatched the half-winged boy away, kicking and protesting, flapping his wing helplessly. Rick heard the demon laughing all the way down.

Petrus said, "He'll be flying in circles a while yet. You caught your breath?"

"Damn it, I'm tired," Rick thought.

* * *

**11:53:03 pm**

When Rick's eyes opened, he saw an angel flying over him, a slim-golden-haired girl, in white, streaked with red, black drapes suspended from pipe fluttering as she passed. She spun, her legs shot out straight, and the full force of her weight slammed into Brown's head just as he was aiming to blow Rick away with a 44 magnum. His neck broken, Brown toppled to the floor exactly like a bowling pin, only with a broken neck. But Rick didn't see that impact, because Smith landed on Rick's hips in an unsettling, intimate way, not even bothering with the usual gleefully evil banter you read about in novels about serial killers. No, he was all frenzied silence, his mouth in a deathly grimace.

Jones fumbled at the doors, having to first unbar then unlatch them. He started up the ramp into the darkness of the abandoned playground. It blazed with floodlights that shafted brilliantly right down the ramp and into the basement. From outside, Beckett's voice rang out, "Stop. Police! On the ground. Now. I said NOW."

* * *

**11:53:05 pm**

The elevator pinged, the door slid open, and the room rang with cries: "Police! Freeze! Hands in the Air! Drop your weapon. Drop the weapons!" That was Esposito and Ryan, talking over one another as usual. Betsy was barking frantically and hauling on her harness. Castle's rescuers paused a bare second, shocked, at the sight of a half-naked demon straddling Castle with a knife in his hand. Then the demon's silhouette was made crazier by the red, blue, and amber lights from the arriving SWAT team, coming in from behind the van.

Castle had forgotten help was even coming in the eternity since his head hit the floor. He thrust his left hip up, which capitalized on Smith's momentum as he attempted a slash. Smith was bucked off him partway, Castle gripped the killer's right wrist with his left hand, and then the full wrath of the 12th Precinct's Finest was leveled upon his sorry ass: Esposito really had no qualms at all about dislocating his arm.

**11:54 p.m.**

Betsy bayed joyfully, sniffed the bed, got very quiet for a moment, and to Mo's astonishment, she turned to Smith, who was crying in agony as Esposito and Ryan cuffed him, and she lunged at him. He shrank back screaming as she barked and growled. Mo held her back, as was his job, and said, "Good girl. Gooood Betsy." He gave her a treat, then held out the bags with Elise's tights - having determined her presence in both the upstairs lobby and the elevator. "Betsy. Where's Elise? Find the lady."

Rick sat up, rubbing the back of his head, and spoke to his partners. "Thanks, guys."

Ryan said, "I'll just go check on Beckett." Brandishing his badge so the SWAT team wouldn't decide he was a dirtbag and riddle him with holes, he moved cautiously out the door and up the ramp. The SWAT team had already taken Jones into custody, and their captain was in the act of unlocking Beckett's cuffs Ryan approached the van. It was parked at an odd angle, its driver's side airbag deployed and already collapsed. The van had smacked into the chain link fence that separated the ramp from the old playground, mostly to prevent balls from falling down into it.

"Nice driving, Beckett," he said.

He suddenly wondered if he'd ever seen her quite that mad at him before. She didn't say a word, and when her fist connected with his jaw, the only thing he could think of to say was "Ow."

* * *

•

**11:55 p.m.**

Esposito said, "So, what about the girl? Is she here?" In his heart, Rick wanted to go with Ryan to find his wife, but for the moment, he had to be more concerned about Elise. Still a bit disoriented and questioning his own visions of swan wings and angels, he didn't know quite where she was.

* * *

**11:55:30**

Mo gave the dog her lead, and she stopped in the middle of the room, sat, and barked at the bundle of woman twirling slowly, up by the rafters. Betsy was doing the Dance Of "OH MY, I AM SUCH A GOOD GIRL LOOK WHAT I FOUND!" She let loose a mighty bay, and Mo said, "Is she up there? Who is that, Betsy? Is that Elise?" Betsy let out a joyful howl and jumped up, nose pointing toward the girl, barking.

Between the sirens, the yelling, the lights, Smith's moans of pain, and the baying, this was just altogether too much for Elise to handle. She huddled into a tinier ball, twenty feet in the air.

The female cop approached her, warm brown eyes smiling. Officer Tori Ellis took off her jacket – which smelled like Calvin Klein's Eternity perfume, a turkey burger, diet cola and curly fries – and held it up in offering it to Elise. "Elise? It's okay. You can come down. Would you like to borrow my jacket while we get you out of here?"

They all heard the pounding of many feet upstairs, more yelling as the SWAT team moved from room to room, and Elise's rig trembled slightly. Years of dust began to drift like snow from the ancient rafters. Betsy sneezed. Elise clung like a lemur, peeped out, and shook her head _no_. "I have to finish it. I have to finish them."

"What?"

"The dance. Odette..." she paused in confusion. "Not Odette, Elise. She worked all night on the shirts, weeping. Dawn wouldn't come for a long time, nor would her poor enchanted brothers, and she was condemned to die. She hadn't finished..." Something. Was it the ballet? Or the last shirt of nettles? She looked at her hands, bloodied by her own nose. Had she finished? What part of the story was she in? "The swans carried her in the net, over the stormy sea."

Tori tried not to frown, but the young woman made little sense to her. "Swans?"

Betsy looked up at Elise in confusion. Her windmill tail stopped twirling. She'd never treed a girl before, and Mo did not look happy. Why was nobody happy? Was it because the girl was bleeding? She thought, _"We have the girl! Up a tree!" _Ok, it wasn't really a tree. But they had caught the bad men!

Mo signaled her. "Betsy. Leave her."

Betsy moaned. She was trying to sit, quiet and obedient, not too close, smiling at at the girl, tail wagging. Elise looked down at the blue-tick hound in wonder. She really didn't know much about dogs (in fact the big ones scared her a little, and the bay Betsy had made coming out of the elevator was blood-curdling). But she knew about fairy tales, and this sure as hell didn't look like one... or did it? She asked Betsy flat out: "Do you know me?"

Betsy, like any dog, felt challenged when people looked her straight in the eyes. Her tail gave one confused wag, her drooly smile left her, and her droopy eyes grew sad and confused. She nosed at Mo (her lovey darling Alpha Dog-Man) for reassurance, and he knelt next to her and gave her a little treat, which she took half-heartedly. Mo said, "Good girl. Let's go, Bets."

Mo felt Castle's hand on his shoulder. The writer murmured, "Wait."

Castle had been standing off to the side a little, afraid to intrude, especially since he'd probably broken Elise's nose, intentionally or not. He felt horrible. But he knew Andersen's story of the eleven swans word-for-word. He'd read and told it to Alexis at least fifty times, and even though Andersen was sort of a proselytizing oddball, the Wild Swans was one of his daughter's favorites. Castle looked up at her through the dust and flickering colored lights. "That's the story. The dog knows you. _'No one but the yard dog and the swallows would recognize her; but they were poor animals who had nothing to say in the matter'_."

Elise's attention snapped to him. He may have smacked her in the nose, but he was the only person making sense just now. "My brothers are coming for me. We have to fly all night if we want to reach the rock by dawn. I have to..."

Castle smiled, so gently. "Elise, they're already here. But they're not swans. Look. Let's count them."

He pointed to Tori: "That's Officer Ellis, she's One. That's Officer Attah, he's Two. Detective Ryan, Three. Detective Esposito, Four." (He just gestured, but they didn't really respond: they were cuffing and leading Bill Smith out, no time for introductions.) "The man with the beard is Mr. Hunt. He's Five." Hunt gave her a courtly bow, then gestured to the elevator, stepped in, and inserted a key into the switch. Of course he had an elevator key. Of course he did. The doors slid closed.

Rick said to Elise, "Are you ready to get out of here?"

The girl spun slowly on the silk, thinking, dreading. "There are monsters in the churchyard, feasting on the dead. In the moonlight."

Castle said, "You'll be safe. No nettles, no ghouls in the churchyard. The moon won't be up for another few hours. And I promise to keep my elbow away from your nose from now on."

Tori and Mo exchanged a puzzled glance. Castle said, "Andersen's _Wild Swans,_" as if that explained everything.

"Andersen who?" Mo whispered. Tori shrugged.

Jackson had gone back up in the elevator to ferry a couple of EMTs with a gurney. They rolled out and took a look at Brown then covered him with the quilt from the bed, and wrote down an estimated TOD: 11:55 pm. They looked up at Elise and waved tentatively. "Hey, there."

Castle looked at their name tags, then back up at Elise. "These lovely people would like to take you to a safe room at the hospital. Let's call Ms Spinalzo Six, and Mr. Washington Seven."

"No, no, no. There are straps on the bed."

"That's standard," said Ms. Spinalzo. "They're to keep you from rolling off in transit to the hospital."

"_No_ straps." She swung a little, like a lost child at a playground. "I'd rather die than be tied up again. I mean it."

"Hey, Elise. How about just a seat belt?" Castle suggested. "Your hands and legs will be free. You pack a hell of a punch. See?" She peered down as he gestured to his right temple, which was raising a bruise. He had just realized his right ear hurt like hell, too. "Did you seriously bite my ear?"

"Just a little." she hesitated, looking anxious. "Sorry."

Castle shrugged. "No worries."

The paramedics looked at his injuries and gave Elise a thumbs up. "You did this? Good work."

Elise sort of disappeared into the folds of her cocoon, and it spun thoughtfully for a few more moments.

* * *

**Saturday, June 21, 2014, 11:59 p.m.**

Without warning, Elise horrified them all with a magnificent swan dive into the air. Her trajectory arced out several yards, the red fabric floating suspended behind her. Then the silk twined around her leg snapped taut, and she swung down almost to ground level, spinning, her arms spread like the wings of a bird. With a gasp, the four people directly below lunged to catch her and collided, and Betsy barked – not in fear, but excitement. Mo led her away from the flurry, and they sat out of the way, watching.

The young woman flew over them a few times - the world's strangest Foucault pendulum, threatening to mow them over. Finally she reached down for Castle's upraised left hand and grasped it, then dismounted gracefully from the silk. "Where are the others?" she asked. She exhibited a strange, radiant calm under the makeup and blood and stringy, dusty hair.

"The others?" Castle mused. "Oh. The others. Yes."

Tori slipped her own jacket onto Elise's bony shoulders, and the two EMTs helped the dancer lie down on the gurney. She reacted with pure terror as they tried to strap her down, then they reminded her that, just this once, they'd only belt her lap loosely in case of an accident. They let her get off, get back on, and fasten the strap herself, then unfasten it and click it closed yet again, five or six times... just to be sure she could. They rolled her up the ramp past the 12th's van parked at a crazy angle in the playground up top, its front fender just a little bit bashed into the chain-link fence and the airbag deployed. They blinked around at what seemed like a thousand flashing amber, white, red, and blue lights: six squad cars, a couple of ambulances, a fire truck. A couple of SWAT vehicles. Radios squawked at one another like a flock of Canada geese fighting over dropped kettle corn.

Washington and Spinalzo swung the gurney onto the sidewalk, and down to the corner where three ambulance waited. Castle looked around, wondering whether Beckett was upstairs in the building, or perhaps in the back of the 12th precinct's van.

As they followed the gurney toward the ambulance, two unis approached Castle and Mo – it was Nguyen and Kavakian.

"So, you guys had a party and didn't think to invite us?"

Rick said, "I, uh, I'd be glad to do a debriefing in a moment," he gestured at Elise. "I just want to make sure she's okay. Hey, have you seen Officer Esposito?"

"Yeah, he's at the other ambulance."

Rick watched Washington open the ambulance doors, and the two EMTs lifted Elise inside. He suddenly felt torn in five different directions. "Well, is Esposito okay?"

"Oh, he's fine," the officers smirked. "Now, we got some questions for youse guys."

They were just about to start in questioning, when Captain Victoria Gates marched up in a red power suit, fresh as a Mary Kay saleslady on a Saturday morning. She introduced herself, effectively interceding at least until the South Bronx precinct captain could trump her authority. She knew she had to move fast.

Castle was the soul of courtesy He gestured up to the girl in the ambulance. "Captain Gates. This is Elise Mowrey. Elise, Captain Gates is your number Eight."

Gates looked up at Elise and smiled warmly. "Welcome back, Elise. We'll make sure you're safe from here."

"Number eight," Elise repeated. Her gaze reminded Victoria of a newborn baby's, serious and barely focused, but curious. Gates looked at Castle as if he were out of his mind. "Excuse me, but..."

He held up a finger gently... "And these officers are also here to protect you. This is Officer Nguyen, and Officer Kavakian."

Elise said, "Nine and ten."

Castle beamed at her. "Yes! Now..." he listened for, and heard, the dulcet tones of his wife, chewing Kevin Ryan a new one.

_"YOU SAID YOU HAD CRACKERS, RYAN. YOU LIED TO ME."_

"Over there, that lady yelling at Detective Ryan? That's my wife." His face shone with admiration. "Detective Kate Beckett. She goes up all the way to eleven."

Elise smiled just a little, and he figured she'd probably seen _This Is Spinal Tap_ at some point. "Eleven swans... eleven brothers and sisters," she murmured. Betsy's cool nose bumped Castle's pinky, and he absently stroked the dog's silky, blue-black ears.

Elise said, "Are you Mr. Beckett?"

"Sort of. We haven't figured out the hyphenation thing yet. You can call me Richard, or Rick, or Mr. Castle, or..." he let his voice squeak a little, "Mrs. Beckett."

Mo snickered. "I went through the same hyphenation tussle with my wife."

"Castle," said Elise. She thought a moment, then said drily, "So you're the prince."

Gates gave Castle a sharp look. "He's more of a … court jester? You'll find a prince later on, when you're ready. Not that you really need one. I hear you acted very bravely, young lady."

She shook her head a little, lips pressed together hard. "Thanks."

Rick said it again. "I'm so sorry. About your nose. About everything."

"I'll be fine," she whispered, but didn't meet his eyes.

The EMTs loaded Elise into the ambulance. Tori climbed in with her to take the ride back to the hospital. "We've already called your folks, Elise. They'll be meeting us there."

The EMT, Ms. Spinalzo, said, "Okay, Elise, I'm gonna check your blood pressure. Just relax your arm..."

Castle and Mo watched the girl soberly, and waved at her with silent, fatherly smiles when the doors closed and the ambulance screamed away toward New York General.

They exchanged a sad look. Mo said, "She's got a long road." Castle nodded silently.

Nguyen interrupted, "SO, I'm wondering exactly what happened here?"

Pillow Case Kate Beckett sauntered over and stood next to Captain Gates, glaring at her husband. Betsy sidled over to Kate and sniffed at her crotch, murmuring "Wrrooorraghhh", which is Dog for, _"Honey. It's hormones. Lighten up."_ Then Betsy gave Kate the Lean of Reassurance. Kate was mad, but beneath it all, she was scared. Scared that something bad would happen. Scared of being useless. Scared of losing her Pillow Case Rick again.

The woman spoke archly to her husband, who really did not want to have an argument at that particular time. "You've been somewhat accident-prone of late," she drawled. Betsy could smell the acid in Kate's stomach. The woman needed to eat.

Castle's eyes were wide and blue in the streetlights, innocent as a lamb's. "We met up with Mo. The intention was to take a walk with the dog and get a beer..."

"In the _South Bronx?_" said Captain Gates.

Nguyen and Kavakian looked mildly insulted. "Hey, we got some gentrification happening here. It's slow, but..."

Castle continued, "Lovely walk, although I did trip on an old bolt sticking out of the sidewalk."

Castle said in an uneasy attempt at humor, "As for being accident prone, I know you'd never mean that as a threat, Detective Beckett."

"Never say never." He could tell by the look she gave him that she wanted to exchange Serious Words, but they seemed to have a silent agreement that it wasn't gonna happen in front of personnel from two precincts and a SWAT team (and as she came to that conclusion, she added the South Bronx precinct captain pulling up at roughly the same time as a press van with a big antenna up top). She indicated around to the east wall, where the SWAT team had gone into the main building through the front door. "I'll just leave you to your own devices, since you don't seem to need any further assistance from _me_."

Just about everyone present thought, "Ouch."

Working with the South Bronx precinct and the 12, Captain Glass of the SWAT unit seemed to have things under control. Beckett had given Glass the situation when they first arrived; it was they who had apprehended Jones while he lay cowering on the ramp face-down, her gun trained on his prone body. Then Detective Ryan had come out and un-cuffed her, and she'd decked him. Ryan was now in the second ambulance, icing his jaw.

Beckett said, "What do we have?"

Glass glanced at her. "Building's clear of live people, but we've got..." he pursed his lips. "Well, I'm not sure how many bodies, but there's a walk-in freezer on the first floor in the old preschool."

Kate sat down on the stairs, out of the way. "Oh, my god." She put her head down between her knees.

The SWAT captain stared at her. "Wait, are you sure you're a cop?"

Feeling woozy, she held up her badge. "Yes. Really. Not feeling too good. Must be something I ate."

Glass said drily, "I don't suppose that being cuffed to your own van was conducive to your mood."

Kate glowered at him. "Look. I drove that van around the corner _from the passenger side _to block off the north exit doors, and I've got morning sickness, so can we not discuss my mood any further?"

"Morning sickness? What the hell, woman? You bent that fender? You get back to that ambulance and have them check you out. No. Just sit." He radioed the third ambulance. "Come around to the front steps, will ya? No big deal, just someone being stupid."

Kate stood up. "I can walk back..."

"Sit. The fuck. Down." The ambulance pulled up, and then a couple of coroner's vans. Out stepped Lanie Parish, Sidney Perlmutter, and a number of other M.E.s whom Kate had seen around the coroner's office and at various crime scenes. Lanie spied Kate, looking green, sitting on the trashed steps.

"Girl, what are you doin' here?"

Kate's face crumpled tearfully. "Oh, Lanie, I just hate this."

Lanie fished around in her bag and found a protein bar. She sat down next to her friend and started the wrapper for her, then put an arm around Kate's shoulder while the detective munched ravenously. She spoke with her mouth full. "Did you bring any..."

"Water? You bet I did."

Perlmutter passed them on the way up the stairs without a pause, grumbling just loud enough to be heard from a safe distance: "Slackers."

* * *

**June 22, 12:14 a.m.**

"So, Mr. Castle," said Kavakian. "You're a cop?"

"You've never heard of Richard Castle," said Gates. It was more a puzzled statement than a question.

Kavakian and Nguyen exchanged an uncomfortable look.

Castle shrugged, a little deflated. "My car caught fire on the way to my wedding?"

"Oh, YEAH. In the Hamptons. We heard about that. You! So you're not a cop."

"No. I consult sometimes."

"Too bad about the Mercedes. That musta been a sweet ride."

Castle shrugged. There was an awkward pause.

"So how did you..."

"It was my dog," said Mohammed Attah. "Betsy. She'd been working this case, actually, hoping to find the Long Island Serial Killer Ring."

Kavakian looked at the building as if he wished he could burn through the walls with his gaze.

Nguyen said, "No shit." He glanced over at Captain Gates. "Sorry, Ma'am."

She twitched a little, but let it go. Castle said, "She really does prefer 'Sir'."

Mo continued, "We're just walkin' along, Betsy picks up a scent, leads us to the building, Castle does some fast talking, we call for backup..."

"Wait. A serial killer just _let you in?_"

Castle said, "Well, in his defense, I'm sure he was planning to kill me at his convenience."

"And it just happened to be two cops and a bloodhound and a - consultant? And... where did that elevator mechanic go?"

Castle shrugged. "I think he went to get our car."

"And your wife just happened to be working the surveillance van tonight."

Castle felt like he was swallowing a rock. "Sir?"

Gates said, "I had her team stationed about ten minutes from here. When Castle felt he was at risk, he naturally texted her."

Esposito stepped over and greeted the two Bronx unis with a friendly handshake. "Good to see you again."

Kavakian said, "So, Mr. Castle went in as a concerned citizen and then when you all heard Ms. Mowry screamin', you went to back him up."

"That would be correct," said Castle.

"Not exactly, Castle," said Esposito. "I think the person screamin' was you. We came down the elevator and that little ballerina was beatin' the crap... was putting up a very spirited defense." He grinned.

To Esposito's surprise, Castle's mood changed. The writer seemed to grow taller, looming over the detective and looking very much like he wanted to put a fist through his face. It occurred to Esposito, for the very first time, that he wouldn't want to be the focus of Richard Castle's unbridled wrath, and he wondered what it would be like if Castle actually snapped, as Beckett had with Ryan a few minutes before. The writer glared down at him and gritted, "That _little ballerina_ was fighting for her life, Esposito. That's no joking matter."

Esposito didn't even think to try offering an excuse. "Hey. I'm sorry, man. Out of line."

Castle's face was a harsh, angry mask for a moment longer.

Mo said, "Hey, man, easy."

Castle blew out a breath. "Yeah. I know. You're just blowin' off steam." But he didn't go back to his usual sunny self; he was still miffed.

Kavakian pressed, "But you didn't have a warrant."

Esposito said, "Mr. Castle is not a police officer. He went in on his own volition as a private citizen, and was allowed into the building by the suspects on his own recognizance. We went in with probable cause because as I previously stated, it sounded like someone was roughing him up."

"But he apparently hit Miss Mowry."

Gates's face went eerily blank, and she stared at Castle. "You what?" Her voice was scary-soft.

Castle sighed regretfully. "I didn't _hit_ her. She thought I was 3XK. I got into a fight with the guy in the demon getup, and she jumped me from behind."

"Why?"

"Why don't you ask her!" Castle snapped. He bit down on his anger.

Gates said, "It's sometimes a mistake to speculate, but perhaps she was literally going with the devil she knew."

Mo sighed. "There are cameras all over that room. Things can happen real fast when you're dealin' with these types. We can sort that out later."

"But you didn't have a warrant."

Gates said, "Oh, that's my mistake, it should be here any..."

Ryan strutted up to them and slapped a little packet of papers into her hands. "There you go, Sir."

Castle stared at Ryan, who was holding an ice pack to his jaw. "What happened to you?"

"Oh, uh, Beckett punched me." He chuckled. "I cuffed her to the van so she couldn't follow us in." He went to fistbump Esposito, who gave him an "oh, no, you didn't" warning look instead of the usual response.

Castle finally blew. "WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?" He flew at Ryan, Esposito and Kavakian holding him back. "You left her _alone_?"

Really, they had trouble holding Castle back. Esposito wondered how that would have gone had the big lug not already been so banged up over the past few weeks.

Ryan was no coward, but he stayed at a reasonable distance. He'd already been punched once, and that was enough for one night. "You told me you didn't want her involved. I was improvising!" His resolve shaking under Castle's baleful gaze, he stammered a little. "Besides... besides, it was funny when she did it to you."

Gates said, "She cuffed you to the _van_?"

Castle rubbed his buzz cut, hit a sore spot and his hands flailed slightly in exasperation. "Her patrol car. A long time ago. Our first case together, she told me to... She told me to stay out of … stay in the car."

Gates scowled at Ryan. "She's _pregnant_, and you left her cuffed, alone, to a van in the South Bronx. In the middle of the night."

Esposito said, "We'd already called for backup. She was only alone for a minute or two, tops."

Nguyen said, "She had a gun. She was fine when SWAT showed up and uncuffed her."

Ryan rubbed his jaw. "Oh, she was more than fine." But he knew she wasn't. She'd looked ready to cry or pass out, he wasn't sure which. But aside from attempting to break his jaw, she'd wanted nothing to do with him. He added miserably, "She drove it around back to block the north exit."

Castle blenched, and sort of rocked, as if he'd been hit. "She crashed it."

"Just a little," Ryan said. "She's fine. Or at least she says she's fine."

"Fine?" Castle bristled, then threw his hands in the air. "'FINE?' Don't you know what _fine_ means, Ryan? It means _'I am not fine.'" _ He turned on his heel and walked away toward the corner.

Gates said, "Perhaps we should just go back to the more professional aspects of this evening's pursuits." She perched her reading glasses on her nose and looked it over. "Yes. Here we go. The warrant extends to all hands in the NYC boroughs, including SWAT and FBI jurisdiction. Speaking of which, have the FBI shown up yet?"

And just like that, she had control of the board again. She'd have to deal with her beautiful mess of a precinct later, and steeled herself to coordinate with both the Bronx precinct captain and, when it would eventually arrive, the FBI. It was gonna be a long night. But you know: she handled it just... fine.

•

When Castle rounded the corner to the east entrance, what he saw brought him into the first run he'd taken since his car was shoved off the road. Fortunately, it was only a few steps to the ambulance, where Kate lay on a gurney having her blood pressure checked. Lanie was sitting with her. She had that "I am deliberately being calm and supportive even though I'm freaking out inside" look. Rick hurtled up into the ambulance and Lanie stepped down. "She's probably fine. But she had trouble stopping the van, and the airbag went off, so she got a little bit of a jolt." He sort of flew into the back of the ambulance, and then sat agonized, not daring to disturb Kate as they took her blood pressure.

The EMT said, "Okay, Kate, you're at 120 over 85."

Kate said, "That's a little high for me."

"That's okay, you're in good shape, so your bp would normally be a little low, right? And your blood 02's in normal range. Are you Kate's husband?"

Rick nodded yes. Kate opened her eyes and smiled sadly at him. Her eyes were streaming. "I'm so sorry."

He kissed her forehead, then her cheeks. "I know. Me too." Then her lips.

She closed her eyes again. "Will we get through this, too?"

"This, too."

The ride to the hospital seemed to take forever. It was a Saturday night, and a zoo, and unfortunately, an early pregnancy risk is not high on an ER's priority list. They checked Kate into a room, and the two of them slept there, with Kate on the bed and Rick's head on her thigh, holding her hand, for quite a while. Eventually a doctor, Jane Wong-Bergen came in, as smiley as a person can be at 3:25 a.m. Rick snapped awake at her knock. Kate roused more slowly.

Dr. Wong-Bergen looked at the chart. "Do I have the wrong room?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well – is it Kate? You look radiant, but – is this your husband?" Kate really looked at Rick. His ear had been bitten, he had a bruise on his temple and a split lip, his knuckles were abraded, and he had a slash on his cheek from a knife graze. And he still had the angry pink line of stitch scars from his scalp injury. Kate wrinkled her nose. "Yes, this is definitely my husband." She gave him a shaky smile. Sitting up, he'd been slammed by a hundred body aches from last night's falls and blows. He stretched, and she noticed the high-tech cast on his right arm was badly cracked.

The doctor said, "Sir, were you in an accident?"

Rick shook his head. "No, but she was. That's why we're here."

Kate added, "I'm a cop. I had a little crash in the van, line of duty. The airbag went off."

"Oh. Uh, okay. And, Kate, you're pregnant? Okay. How far along?"

Kate said, "I'm not sure. I was on depo shots and forgot to get it renewed. I started feeling sick..." She sighed. She felt like she'd been nauseous since the dawn of time, and that it would never really end. Rick said, "Likely since early to mid-May."

"Six-ish weeks. Good!" The doctor smiled tightly. "Now, it could go either way. Some pregnancies just don't make it, for one reason or another. That's surprisingly common." Rick and Kate exchanged miserable glances and squeezed hands. "On the other hand, since the embryo is _soooo_ very tiny at this point, there's a lot of cushioning in proportion. So if the accident didn't dislodge the placenta or disrupt the yolk sac, then the pregnancy has a good chance to develop as normal and healthy."

She explained the transvaginal ultrasound, and why it was necessary this early in the pregnancy. The technician prepped the wand. "Do you want Mr. Beckett to say in the room, or would you like privacy?"

Kate looked at him. "It's up to you," she whispered, and didn't say aloud what he could see so clearly in her anguished eyes. _"Please don't leave me all alone."_

"Wild horses," he said.

She blinked back tears. "Thanks, Mr. Beckett."

He tried to smile.

"Ready?"

Kate nodded, and the ultrasound technician, Jolene, talked her through. "Okay, scoot your body down toward me just a little more and relax. Okay, I've placed a cover on the ultrasound wand, and I'm going to insert it now, you'll feel some pressure, just let me know if you feel any discomfort, okay, Kate?

Rick thought that if he heard the word "Okay" again from the woman's mouth, he was going to throttle her. He shook that off and forced himself to relax. Kate was looking at a photo of a hot-air balloon taped to the ceiling above her. She didn't want to see his face when the bad news came.

"Okay, Kate, I want you to just breathe normally, I'm going to just go in a little further. You okay there?"

"Yeah," Kate grunted.

The doctor turned the screen toward them. "The dark area's Kate's bladder, which we can see is pretty full."

"Yeah," Kate repeated. It sure as hell was. She hoped she didn't leak or something, then felt stupid for thinking of such a thing when...

"Okay. And there's your uterus. And there's your itty-bitty bundle of joy."

Kate almost sat up. "WHAT?"

"Put the sound on, Jolene, so they can hear its little heartbeat. That's... 111 bpm. A little high. But fine. Strong. Jussst fine."

Jolene smiled. "I love this part."

Kate and Castle held hands tightly, staring at the monitor. Just a little shadow, a bean with a tiny tail, barely 1/2" long yet.

Jolene turned the sound on. "That's the heartbeat." _PshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshh..._

Rick sat back a moment and put his hand over his eyes, pressing tears back. _"Yes!"_

It was an odd sound, not what Kate expected, accustomed to the adult heartbeats she'd heard. "It's so fast." The heartbeat! A staccato electronic _PshhPshhPshh_, steady as a little clock, translated through the ultrasound machines sensors:

_PshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshh..._

Kate started to sob, and, staring at the screen with tears pouring down his cheeks, Rick just laid his head on her shoulder and took her hand. "Alexis' was just like that. The _sweetest_ sound..."

Kate said it again: "Yeah." But it was like a brand new word, full of wonder and joy. "This is really happening?" _...PshhPshhPshh..._

Jolene and the doctor exchanged glances. "Your embryo's in there, doin' fine. See? Those little buds are already movin' a little. Kind of like swimming."

Rick straightened up for one last glance at the screen, at that tiny, dear shadow. "Can you give us a printout of the image?" _...PshhPshhPshhPshhPshhPshh..._

Dr. Wong-Bergen said, "Of course, Mr. Beckett, if it's okay with Mommy."

_Mommy? _

Kate smiled, and breathed out her new favorite word: "Yes."

* * *

..._PshhPshhPshh..._


	30. Chapter 30

_Doctors, shocking revelations, a near breakdown, and Gates singing a brand new tune...  
_

_Too Soon Chapter 30: The Doctor is in.  
_

* * *

_June 23, 2014, 2:41 a.m._

Sal Tenor was still up. He was a bit of a night owl, and the drinks were flowing, and he was winning, and a woman half his wife's age (and twice her natural cup size) had her hand on his meaty thigh, hidden under the table. This was his favorite kind of pastime, celebrating a successful and lucrative business venture. One of his assistants had his phone so he wouldn't be distracted, but this time he got a tap on the shoulder.

"Text from Castle."

"Eh. Ok, fold, it wasn't that good a bet," he grinned, and pushed back from the table. He kissed the girl's hand. "S'cuse me, honey, you just keep that little hand warm for me, huh?"

She put her hand over his cards. That was the kind of bright she was... not very. But that was okay, he didn't need her to be smart at everything.

He called Castle back.

"Hey, Ricky, why you never call me when you don't need somethin'?"

"Sorry, Sal..."

"Yeah, I see you was busy getting' disappeared. Innerestin' press conference."

"Oh, yeah, that."

"You know I got someone can set you up with a good rug till your hair grows back, my wife Natalie has a second cousin..."

"Actually, I was looking for a doctor who makes house calls."

Sal's voice grew quiet, cautious, and he moved into a quieter area of the room, facing into the curtains. "What, you okay?"

"Mostly, I just..." Castle's sigh was deep and ragged. "I need someone to sew my ear up, and it's almost 3 a.m. And I don't want to leave my wife alone."

"Hey, if I was married to a woman like that I wouldn't blame ya."

Rick let it pass that Sal had made no sense. "So do you know a doctor who makes house calls? Doesn't have to be a brain surgeon, it's mostly cosmetic. Ok, it hurts."

"Well, there was one lady but she was kinda nutty so we parted ways... I do know a GP. We did one of them Northern Exposure deals, put him through med school and gave him an offer to work for us."

"Good. I'm at the Three Crowns Central Park, bridal suite."

"Can you wait 45?"

"Thanks, Sal. That's great."

While he waited, Castle checked his messages, and sent out a text of his own to everyone who'd care to know: "Had a little scare, but Kate's fine. Heard baby's heartbeat hospital. Cutest ultrasound ever. Sweet dreams."

**June 23, 3:17 a.m.**

Dr. Enzo Locatelli was young, maybe thirty, and he looked like Michelangelo's David: tall, curly-haired, with large brown eyes and a heartbreaker smile. The good doctor gave Rick a quick once-over on his slashed cheek and bitten ear, and quipped, "I don't even wanna see the other guy."

"Circus," Castle sighed painfully. "Three clowns and a ballerina"

Locatelli watched Castle's slow movements and observed the high-tech but crumbling cast. "So, what else you got?"

"Mostly bruises."

Rick stripped off his T, revealing a mass of bruises on his ribs, the inside of both arms, his belly and back. His cast was cracked, still holding together, but with jagged edges. The doctor whistled softly. "Can't believe the hospital set you loose without even looking you over - the sooner you get stitches, the less scarring." He tested Rick's rib cage gently, and Rick suppressed a gasp of pain. "Not broken, but I wouldn't want to be you. Okay, turn around and bend over..."

Which is where Kate found them when she stepped out of the bedroom. She stared at the two men, Castle with his shorts half-down and a man like a bronzed god in jeans and a Yale sweatshirt, standing behind him, hands on his backside.

"Hey, Kate."

She was wearing just a little sleep tank and some purple bikini panties. They'd taken a quick shower on returning: him to get the filth of the dungeon off him, her to remove the ultrasound goo from her privates and belly. She had a black satin sleep mask on her forehead as a headband. "Hey, Castle. Do we have any more ice cream?"

"Uh, this is Dr. Locatelli, by the way. Stay away from the chocolate. It has caffeine. You should go right back to sleep."

She gave the two men an appraising look. "Not entirely sure I'm awake." She reached into the full-size kitchenette freezer and pulled out the strawberry and vanilla. "I wish they made spinach ice cream," she said.

"You're craving spinach?" said the doctor.

"Yeah, I'm suddenly dying for vegetables. You know that frozen creamed spinach that comes in a little brick?"

"We're expecting a baby," Castle beamed. "Six weeks! OW! Not so hard."

"The good news is you don't have a broken tailbone," said Dr. Locatelli. "Ma'am, are you on prenatal vitamins?"

"Yes, of course, I went on them as soon as I took the test. You should offer to spank him, but just a little. Castle can be such a baby." She winked, and licked suggestively at a spoonful of pink ice cream. "Aren't you, Babe?"

"Uh, Kate?" Castle straightened with effort and stared at Kate, puzzled.

Dr. Locatelli tried to stay businesslike. "Well, just be sure you stay on them, and eat your veggies, and drink your orange juice, okay?"

"Okay," said Kate. "Castle, this actually tastes like strawberries, and it's cold. Does that mean I'm awake?"

Castle nodded. "What does food usually taste like when you're dreaming?"

"Like the inside of my mouth. Oh, shit..." She coughed a little, setting down her ice cream carton and spoon. "I'm sorry? Who is that man and why was he looking at your butt?"

"I fell." Castle turned his backside to her and hitched the elastic down on his shorts. She winced at the v-shaped bruise on his tailbone.

"Where, off the Empire State Building?"

Dr. Locatelli introduced himself.

Kate said, "Thanks for coming," then, back to eating again, she came around and looked at Rick's back, which was covered with bruises.

"Oh, god, I didn't realize... wow." Suddenly wide awake and all business, she went to the ice dispenser (which rattled and groaned out a few ice cubes at a time) and filled up a baggie. The cubes were 3/4" across, and made for a bumpy pack. She said, "I don't know where to put this first."

Dr. Locatelli said, "Rick, you hold it on that left rib area. If Mrs. Castle does it, you'll go through the ceiling."

"Thanks," Rick said, indicating the freezer. "I didn't want to make any noise while you were sleeping."

She put a hand on his cheek. "You're an idiot, but you're very sweet. The only thing that wakes me up anymore is my bladder."

Castle said, "Well, and your stomach."

"And the alarm clock, which will be going off in three hours." She went to the house phone. "Hi, room service please. Can you bring up a bag of frozen peas or corn or blueberries? And some ziplocks? Also, do you have any creamed spinach?"

While Kate talked, Locatelli gave Rick a local that finally cooled the fire in Rick's ear. Then he started cleaning Rick's wounds, listening in with suppressed smiles. It's always fun to hear one side of a conversation that's only reasonable if you know the context.

"Peas would be fine. Yes, two pounds. No, I don't need them cooked. And the ziplocks. The smaller the better. Yes. So you don't have the spinach?" Her brow wrinkled in disappointment. "Well, do you think we could come down to the kitchen and cook some up? Oh." She pouted over at Rick. "All they have is _kale_. No, never mind. No, we want the peas frozen but I wanted the spinach cooked. Thank you."

Kate glanced over at Locatelli. "And a small squirt bottle of almond oil. That's all, thanks. No, olive oil's no good, it's too smelly. What kind of well-stocked kitchen doesn't carry almond oil? This is the 21st century and it has a very high smoke point."

Rick stared at Kate. "Almond oil?"

"For massage. Just want to give them something to gossip about," she said breezily. Actually she'd wanted to give him a massage, but looking at his fresh array of bruises, she wondered if that was such a great idea. Maybe he should give _her_ the massage.

Room service arrived a few minutes later. Locatelli had cleaned, stitched and bandaged the bitten ear and slashed cheek, helped Rick stabilize the cast by cutting the toe off one of Rick's tube socks and encasing the structure in the elastic fabric. "You get that replaced tomorrow, right?" He was in the middle of sewing the bite mark when Kate answered the door. She accepted the peas, and a half-bottle of massage oil purloined from the spa, gratefully.

She slipped the waiter a $40 tip. "Look, if you can come up with some of that frozen creamed spinach that comes in a little brick, there's $60 more in it for you."

•

**June 23, 3:43 a.m.**

Castle was determined that Kate was going to sleep tonight. After seeing the doctor out and flipping the security locks both on the main door and the connector between their suite and Martha's, he said, "Okay, time for your massage."

Kate was sitting at the little hotel kitchen island, hand resting on her chin, eyes closed, with a spoon sticking out of her mouth. "I was gonna massage you," she mumbled. "But you're all bruised up."

"Next time. Come on." He took her hand and, setting her spoon down (it flipped off the counter and fell unheeded onto the carpet) she stumbled with him back to the bathroom. They got ready for bed (in her case, for the third time in one night) and she fell into it. He eased in more slowly, then sighed because he realized he couldn't put his weight on his right ear. He rolled over on to his left side, and his ribs hurt. The ibuprophen hadn't kicked in yet. He sighed.

A warm little hand snaked across his waist, and Kate mumbled into his shoulder, "Hey, lover."

"Can I just touch you?" he whispered. "I'm too sore to get carried away right now."

"'Course. But I migh' fall asleep on you."

"That's fine. I just..." She felt him holding his breath. Holding back.

She raised her head, looking at him in concern. The crescent moon had risen, and its wry smile hung low in the sky to the east over the park, casting little light on them.

"I hurt Elise. I didn't mean to."

Kate nodded, awake again. He'd said it before, told her about the fight while waiting for the ultrasound, but it was still eating at him. "From what Espo told me, it wasn't your fault, except that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, without me to cover for you." The reproof was light, almost teasing.

"I don't want to do this without you, I really don't, Kate, but you can't... God, when I saw you in that ambulance." His breath hitched again. "I can't stop. The Ross girl's still out there."

"I know, Castle. I know," she breathed. "But this doesn't all fall on you."

"It does. It's all on me. We didn't find her by accident - he set it up. It was our preschool."

"Where Michael tried to kill you?" She sighed. "I suspected something like that."

"They were going to kill her tonight... they may already have killed Tiffany..."

"Sh, shshh. The FBI's all over that building. There are phones and computers and... and bodies. There's DNA and just... _so_ much evidence. And we have two more live suspects to question. So we'll go have a look tomorrow. See what pops, okay? We'll find a link."

He knew these pep talks. They gave them to one another, each bolstering the other up when things got low. They seemed to have an unspoken agreement never to sink into despair at the same time. He wanted to raise his head to kiss her, but it pulled at his bruised abdomen.

She rolled upright, pulled off her sleep shirt, then her panties, and reached over for the massage lotion. "So you wanted to give me a backrub or something?"

He nodded. "Or something. It would do me good to make you feel better."

"I could do it for you..."

"No," - truth was he just felt unworthy at that time. "Just let me take care of you a little."

"All right. You want me to straddle you?"

His mind jumped to Smith, holding him down and slashing at him. "No!" He hadn't told her that part yet. "Uh, no, just sort of lie next to me."

She said, "Can I take your shorts off, too? Just to be close."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Be gentle with me."

Kate ran a finger down his belly. "How gentle?"

"Ow."

"Oh, you poor thing!" she sighed. She reached a little lower. "This gentle?"

"Well, uh, maybe a little, uh..."

"Harder?"

"Mmmh."

I won't go into any further details at this point, but let's just say the shorts came off, and so did Rick and Kate. They needed a change of sheets the next morning. And a shower. Which they didn't actually take.

•

**June 23 9 a.m. **

Phone message from Dr. Patel: _"Hello! Mr. Castle, It appears that I am having tea with Rosie again today. She is having quite a conversation with the doll you had sent over yesterday afternoon. I see no need for you to come in as she is unaware of time passing. Enjoy a day off. Mr. Minsky's going fishing. He sends his warm regards." _

**June 23, 9:03 a.m.**

Text from Ryan:_"Kate, just want to say again how sorry I am. It was a huge mistake. I'll never forgive myself. But I hope you will. Sincerely! Ryan" _

**June 23, 9:04 a.m.**

Text from Ryan to Castle:_ "Castle, are we good? I really didn't mean to put her in harm's way. Hope you understand that. It'll never happen again. You know I have your backs, right?" _

**June 23, 10 a.m.**

Phone message from Jenny Ryan to Beckett:  
"_Hi, Kate! It's Jenny. I just check my texts and saw Rick's message about the ultrasound and heartbeat. That is SO cool. Make a copy of the ultrasound, they get all weird if they're exposed to heat, so don't carry it in your pocket. I'm so sorry Kev messed up with the cuff thing. I almost made him sleep on the couch, I was so mad. He's so smart but sometimes... ugh! Men are just so dumb. SaraGrace is down for her morning nap right now. One of the babies in my mommy group stopped taking their morning nap and omigod, that is terrifying! How am I ever going to get anything done ever again when that happens? Anyway, I'm sure you guys are still mad at Kev and he deserves it, but he looks so miserable, I hope you can see in your hearts to forgive him. It was funny when you did it, man, I laughed so hard when Castle was telling me about it. Anyway, Kev means well. Just, you know. Some people just can't pull shit off, and then there's folks like Castle who just get away with things. It's kind of a mystery. Annnyway, okay, hope you guys are all right, and talk to you soon. Okay? Take care. Bye-bye."_

**June 23, 11 a.m.**

Text from Gates to Beckett and Castle: _"Jordan Shaw and I would like to meet and debrief you, 4 pm today. Pls confirm. Hope all went well at hospital &amp; you both got some sleep."_

**June 23, noon.  
**Text from Ryan:_"Really, I am __**so**__ sorry, you guys. :-( "_

**June 23, 12:20 p.m.**

Text from Esposito to Beckett and Castle: _"Yo. Lunch Ramies 1330. You on?" _

**June 23, 12:23 p.m.**

Text from Ryan: _"Espo wants to have lunch w/ you guys at Remy's, but if you don't want to see me yet I understand. I guess these things take time." _

**June 23, 12:24 p.m.**

Text from Esposito to Beckett and Castle: _"Look's like Ryans gonna sit here and cry into his kale juice, so he wont be Ramies. C ya there?" _

**June 23, 12:26 pm.**

_Text from Ryan: "Kate, can we just talk about this?"_

June 23, 12:27 p.m.

Text from Kevin Ryan to Jenny Ryan: _"You heard from Beckett at all?"_

June 23, 12:29 p.m.

Text from Jenny Ryan to Kevin Ryan:_ "Called. She didn't call back."_

June 23, 12:29 p.m.

Text from Kevin Ryan to Jenny Ryan: _"Are you still mad, too?"_

June 23, 12:30 p.m.  
Text from Jenny Ryan to Kevin Ryan: _"Not mad just disappointed."_

**June 23, 1:55 pm**

Text from Esposito to Beckett and Castle: _"Your loss on ramies reuben on bluplate special $11.99. So you guys comin in for debrief w gates n shaw 2day?"_

**June 23, 2:20 pm**

Text from Esposito to Beckett and Castle: _"You guys aren't mad me 2, r u?"_

**June 23, 2:50 pm  
**Text from Gates to Ryan and Esposito: _"Have either of you heard from Beckett or Castle today?" _

**June 23, 2:53 pm**

Text from Esposito to Gates:_ "No, but they might not be speaking to me because of last night's cuff thing. I could call em if u want me 2."_

**June 23, 2:58 p.m.**

Text from Gates to Esposito:_ "I'll call them. Thanks." _

**June 23, 3:01 p.m.**_  
_Phone message from Gates to Beckett: _"Detective Beckett, this is Captain Gates. Please return my call. Thank you." _

**June 23, 3:07 pm**

Phone message from Jordan Shaw to Kate Beckett: _"I heard you had some excitement last night. Glad you're both okay. Can you confirm 4pm debrief meeting? Thanks. See you soon." _

**June 23, 3:15 p.m.  
**Esposito to Ryan: _"I don't think its just you man, mom &amp; dad r awol"_

**June 23, 3:16 p.m.**_  
_Ryan to Esposito:_ "Lanie?" _

**June 23, 3:18 p.m. **

Text from Lanie Parish to Kate Beckett:

"_Up most of night, just woke up from nap. Nobody's heard from you, sweetie. Are you &amp; Rick ok? How's the baby?" _

**June 23, 3:21 pm**

Text from Javier Esposito: "Srsly u guys ok?"

**June 23, 3:35 pm**

Phone message from Victoria Gates (essential duplicates left on voice mail for Kate Beckett, Richard Castle, and at the Three Crowns hotel message system): "Hello, this is Captain Gates. I'd asked you both to come in for a debrief with Agent Shaw at 4 p.m., but haven't received confirmation from you. I appreciate the text last night saying the baby is all right, but I'm feeling just a little concerned about both of you. Please get back to me as soon as you can."

**June 23, 3:52 pm**

"Hello, this is Captain Gates down at the Twelfth Precinct."

Martha's voice brightened. "Hello, this is Martha Rodgers. I'm sorry, did the hotel put you through to the wrong room?"

"Actually, I just tried Detective Beckett's room and there was no answer. I've been trying to reach them all day."

"Perhaps they slept in a little. I'll just knock and have them give you a call back."

"Thank you so much, Ms Rodgers."

"Oh, always a pleasure."

•

**June 23, 4:25 pm**

Ryan and Esposito had to break down the door to their suite, and sidled in with guns drawn.

"NYPD. Castle. Beckett, you in here?"

Alexis and Martha waited in the hallway, clinging to one another. A uniform introduced himself as L.T. - "Ladies, let's have you wait down in the lobby in case of trouble, all right?"

"We're not going anywhere."

"And you don't want to impede an investigation, right? Now come on, I have a radio, you'll know what's going on as soon as I do." He guided them to the elevator. The manager stood by the doorway, wringing his hands at the damage to the door.

Ryan and Esposito circled the kitchenette/ great room area. There were discarded alcohol wipes in the trash bin, and a couple of paper towels spotted with dry blood. Someone had left a couple of cartons of ice cream to melt on the counter; they were now swarming with ants. A spoon had been dropped, and abandoned, on the living room carpet.

Ryan shook his head. "Really don't like this." They headed to the bedroom; the door was closed and locked. "Police. Castle, you and Beckett in there?" Shaking, the manager handed Esposito the key, and he opened the door.

No answer. But there was a shape on the bed, two still bodies, the blankets scattered on the floor, and the top sheet drawn up, covering past their heads. Ryan and Esposito shared an anxious glance, then nodded and Ryan swallowed. He reached out with a hand that tried not to shake, and pulled the covers down.

"GAH!" Castle sat bolt upright in utter confusion, flailing, his pillows flying one way and his sheet the other, naked as the day he was born, rolling and scrambling off the near side of the bed with surprising grace and speed, placing himself between Kate and the armed intruders. He hurled himself at Ryan and slammed him against the wall, then wheeled on Esposito, who dodged and holstered his weapon, hands up.

"Hey, hey, calm down, bro, it's us!"

Castle was still disoriented and half-ready to kill, then realized his state. Embarrassed now, he snatched a cream-colored brocade pillow with fringe from a chair to cover his privates. He was breathing hard from the adrenaline rush, and his sock-covered cast had obviously crumbled. He looked down at his wrist and winced in pain, then stared at his friends while Ryan scrambled back to his feet.

Her eyes covered with a black satin sleep mask, a stark-naked Beckett stretched luxuriantly and mumbled, "Not now, Castle."

Esposito and Ryan averted their eyes while Castle covered his sleeping wife, whose pert and lovely figure had been exposed entirely more than any of her boys either wanted to remember or forget. She rolled over on her belly and murmured, "Fifteen minutes, mmmnkay?"

"What? Oh." Castle pulled a set of bright-orange foam earplugs out of his own ears and tossed them in the trash. He turned to Ryan and Esposito.

"Could you knock before you wake a - people up at gunpoint?"

Ryan's mouth opened and closed. Esposito came back swinging. "We knocked, man, and could you answer your goddamn phone? We were worried sick."

"Yeah," Ryan said.

Castle picked up a blanket off the floor and wrapped it around himself like a toga. "Wha? Look, we just slept in a little." He pointed at the portable digital alarm clock he used as backup in case his phone didn't charge. "It's 4:35 a.m."

"It's 4:35 _p.m.,_ Castle." Esposito threw the alarm clock at him.

Castle ducked and let it smack against the wall. He was good at a lot of things, but 'catch'? Not one of them. He looked down at the clock and nudged it with his toe. "Looks like Zero Dark Thirty now."

"Gates and the FBI been looking to debrief you about last night," Espo said. "We had to break the door down just to wake you up?"

Ryan just opened the blackout curtains. The sun had already gone west behind the building, but the sky was bright, smoggy, pale blue.

Castle sighed and rubbed his eyes. Martha ducked her head in cheerfully and said, "It's so nice to hear you screaming at one another as if nothing had happened. Shall I make some coffee, darling?"

Rick shook his head. "No, but did that spinach ever show up?"

"Spinach? In the cooler? Oh, good. Jackson was concerned it might be some sort of bomb."

Castle looked over at his friends. "I need five minutes. Kate needs twenty. Just... let Gates know we'll be there ASAP, okay?"

Esposito nodded. "Okay, Bro. No hard feelings?"

Castle chuckled wryly. "Never again after that experience. Now get the hell out." He started throwing pillows at them, and they dodged out of the room.

He peered down at his dick. "It's okay, Buddy, you scared the mean people away."

•

**4:48 p.m.**

Ryan and Esposito were quiet in the elevator, and walking back to the car. They headed back toward the precinct. Finally Ryan said, "I can't unsee that, any of it."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Explains why he never wants to work out with us."

"Locker rooms must be sort of tough for him."

"Not to mention workouts. Here all this time I thought he was compensating, turns out he was hiding his light under a bushel."

Ryan blushed. "Yeah, I used to wonder how Beckett runs in high heels, now I just wonder how she can even walk."

Esposito looked over at Ryan. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Uh, did you see him?"

"Yeah, I saw him roll out of bed, slam you against a wall, come at me with full intent to kill, goin' all Viggo Mortensen on our asses, so where did he learn that move?"

"What move?"

"That's a special ops move. Military, damn straight."

Ryan's face blushed deeper still. "Oh. Man, I thought you were talking about his, uh..."

"Yeah, he's gonna need a bigger trunk," Esposito chuckled. "Poor Beckett."

Ryan locked the car as they got out and moved through the parking garage. "Maybe his dad taught him. The move."

"When? That takes muscle memory."

"You're saying Castle was with special ops before he signed on with us?"

"I dunno. Maybe he went deep to research the Derrick Storm books."

"Maybe," Esposito frowned. "All's I know's he's hiding something."

"I just hope he keeps hiding it," Ryan said. He suddenly realized he'd banged his elbow against the wall. "Because I never wanna see any of that again."

•

**4:48 p.m.**  
Castle knelt by the bed, taking Beckett's hand and stroking it softly. "Kate, wake up. We need to get going."

"Mmmm. Tiger," she mumbled.

He patted her hand. "Kate. Time to wake up." He tried to take out her earplug but couldn't grasp it with his thick fingertips. After another five minutes of effort from gentle cajoling to patting her face with his fingertip to nibbling her earlobe to tickling her feet, he finally pulled her sleep mask back on its elastic strap and snapped her in the temple with it.

"GODDAMN IT, CATHLE!" She sat up and swatted at him. Then she grabbed a glass of water from the side table and downed it. "My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth," she grumbled, stood up, and Castle had to stop her before she left the bedroom naked.

"Sorry, you need to put a robe on. They're cleaning."

"Why?"

She wrapped up and stepped out into the main room. One maid was dealing with the ants, another with the ice cream stain on the carpet, and a crew was already replacing the splintered door frame.

Kate's eyes went wide. "Did someone break in? Are Martha and Alexis all right?"

Alexis came in from the adjoining suite. "We're fine, really. No big deal. Did you sleep well?"

Kate smiled at her. "Good morning. Yeah, I did, once we finally made it to bed. But I had a dream Castle was wrestling with tigers." She looked around. "I guess you scared 'em off."

"It was just Ryan and Esposito. They had a little misunderstanding, thought we were in trouble."

"Aww, how sweet."

"Hit the bathroom, we have a meeting with Gates at 6 pm."

Kate stopped. "What time is it?"

"Just go pee."

Martha came in from the other suite, bearing a dish of something dark-green and steamy. "It's spinach time!" she sang out.

Kate disappeared into the bathroom. "I love you, Martha!" she called out.

The staff exchanged amused looks. Oh, they were gonna get a year's worth of gossip out of this family.

•

**5:46 p.m.**

Back at the precinct, Ryan was scowling at his bottle of juice.

"Oh, come on, man," Esposito said. "They're not mad at you."

"Did you notice Castle only talked to you? He barely even looked at me."

"Well, he was... a bit worked up," Esposito smirked.

"Hey, that's just how most men wake up in the morning. In fact, for healthy males it happens 3 to 6 times a night..."

"Shh." Esposito had spotted Beckett and Castle approaching from the elevator. Castle looked like he wanted to come over and say something, while Beckett, frowning, dragged him toward Gates' office.

Ryan sat staring blankly at his monitor. "Nothing I love as much as waiting for the axe to fall," he sighed.

"Don't worry, Bro. Worst she'll do is suspend you without pay for a month."

Ryan's eyebrows twitched like dying cicadas. "Great. Jenny's gonna love that."

"She speakin' to you yet?"

"Well, apparently the whole 'handcuffing a pregnant woman to a car' thing is just social suicide all around," Ryan sulked.

Esposito said, "Could've been worse. Could've been me."

"No way I'd cuff you."

"No, I mean could've been me cuffed Beckett. I was that close."

"Oh, shut your piehole," Ryan mumbled.

•

5:49 p.m.

Gates shut the door to her office and pointed to the guest chairs. Castle said, "I could just make some cof-"

Shaw was waiting for them, sitting quietly, smirking abstractly - her natural expression. "Sit down," both women snapped.

He sat down quietly.

Gates said, "Now I want the whole story about last night, from beginning to end."

Castle was, mostly, thorough and truthful, although he left out the part about imagining that the demon Mephistopholes had been trying to give him a killer lap dance. When it came time for Kate to explain the chain of events leading to her being handcuffed, Gates stopped her. "So Esposito said you had done it to him before and it was no big deal?"

"No," Beckett said. "I cuffed Castle to the car, not Ryan."

"Twice!" Castle interrupted. "But the second time I had a key."

"Detective Beckett, why did you cuff Mr. Castle?"

"Oh, she's cuffed me a lot of times. But that time it was because I wanted to follow her in on a bust, and she didn't trust me." He pouted, all puppydog, then grinned winningly at Gates. "Can you believe it?"

Gates didn't bother to dignify that with an answer.

Beckett growled, "That's because you were completely determined to butt in."

"Yeah, but I totally saved your ass, Beckett."

"Said the man standing in an alley with a gun to his head."

"Oh, come on, I told you..."

"Enough," said Gates. She was exhausted: she'd been up all night and had managed to catch a half-hour nap, inadvertently, slumped over her desk, to be awakened by Jordan Shaw's 5 pm telephone call: _"Have you heard from Castle and Beckett yet today?"_

Beckett said, "You should read Castle's deposition, Captain. The judge laughed till she cried. State of New York versus Tisdale..."

"Then she gave me her number," Castle's eyebrows waggled.

"Did you ever call her?" Shaw frowned.

"Only thing I ever called her was Your Honor," he winked.

Beckett glared. "You mean like in the limerick?"

"That's not a limerick."

Gates felt her veneer of civilization cracking and slipping like a chocolate dip shell off a soft ice cream cone.

"So are you saying that Detective Ryan handcuffed you to the police vehicle based on your own _extremely_ unprofessional example?"

"Yes," said Beckett, now serious. "He may not have thought it through, but it was based on my own... exasperated handling of a loose cannon civilian. Ryan's only concern was my safety. Whereas when I first handcuffed Castle..."

"Second..."

"To my car, I halfway hoped that the suspect would shoot him down where he stood."

"Oh, come on Kate, you did not."

She gave him a sidelong glance.

"Beckett?" he squeaked.

She patted his thigh. "Of course not, silly. I wanted to be the first in line." They grinned at each other.

Gates sighed. "So you had set a precedent for this action in your prior dealings, in which Detectives Ryan and Esposito were well versed. And Captain Montgomery never reprimanded you?"

Castle laughed. "Reprimanded? No! Roy liked me. In fact, he made me teach him my Action Theme Song..."

"No sir," Kate said, "He never reprimanded me. You can read about it, State of New York vs. Tisdale..."

" 'Panana Nana Nana Na, Panana Nana Nana Nah! Pana-"

"_Mr. Castle!" _Gates had her face ducked, a hand pressed over her eyes. She held the other up: "STOP. Out. Both of you. Close the door."

Castle and Beckett stood up. Beckett said, "Sir..."

"Out."

Castle said, "I'll make you some steamed milk."

"Hey, is there any honey..."

They bustled out the door.

A moment later Ryan peeked in the break room at them. "Hey," he said. He looked close to terrified. "Uh, hi."

"Hey, Ryan," Kate said pleasantly. "Sorry I missed you guys this afternoon."

"Yeah," he said, "Castle said you were, uh, out like a light. Not that I saw you or anything."

"Saw me what?" Kate asked. She sniffed at her warm steamed milk and smiled at him. "Hey, you're right, Honeymilk, this is pretty good."

"Yeah, Jenny loved it when she was preg- uh, hm." He found himself thinking about Jenny's ripening tatas when she was pregnant, how very horny she'd been, and Beckett...

\- oh thank God - Esposito poked his head in. "What's with Gates &amp; Shaw?"

Castle said uneasily, "What do you mean, what's with Gates &amp; Shaw?"

Esposito motioned, and silently they followed him to Gates' office door, which still had all the blinds closed. They could hear them in there, laughing, and then singing a sort of staccato burst of nonsense.

" 'Panana Nana Nana Nah, Panana Nana Nah! ..."

"Oh, my God. We're screwed," Kate whispered, and hastily downed the rest of her honey-milk.

Castle was over the moon. "That's my action theme song!" he crowed, louder than he'd meant to.

Gates' blinds snapped up, and she glared out at them. They jumped back like middle schoolers caught looking through the tent at a circus peep show.

Her door popped open. She was carrying her coat. "I've had it," she said. "I have reached the end of my tether. I am going home for the night, and I don't want to hear so much as one peep about any of you going rogue for the next eighteen hours. Detectives Ryan and Esposito, you are suspended for one day without pay, but..."

Esposito huffed. "Sir, with all due respect, what did I do?"

"You aided and abetted. This suspension will be... suspended. Commuted. Until such time as I can spare you, and for all I care you can add it on to your next vacation if either of you ever bother to take one, which I suggest you do before you wind up like me. Agent Shaw will take the debriefing from here. Goodnight."

She stalked off to the elevator, waited for it, and they all turned away, huddled together, to avoid watching her padded shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, because they did not want to bear witness to her completely cracking, or at the very least, cracking up.

"So," Ryan said. "You guys forgive me?"

Castle nodded. "Yeah. Sorry I lost it with you last night. And this morning. Afternoon."

Kate frowned. "Did I miss something when you guys came by?"

Her boys all spoke simultaneously. "No. Nope. Nothing."

"When you all talk at once like that..."

"No, really, nothing."

Kate frowned. "What..."

Agent Shaw stepped out of Gates' office. "That woman's quite a piece of work, but she's funny as hell," she observed, then gazed at Beckett. "We need to feed you. We'll do the debrief later."

Castle grabbed their jackets and handed Kate her purse. "I know this great little Serbian restaurant that serves the best creamed spinach..."

"Why don't you ask Jenny and the baby to join us?" Kate said. "I'm sure she can use a night out."

Ryan shook his head. "She's pretty pissed at me."

Kate pulled out her phone and auto-dialed, talking as they headed for the stairs. "Hey, Jenny... it's Kate. How's the baby? Good!...Oh, I'm fine. No harm done. Actually it was probably for the best. You're sweet. Yes, I wanted to kill him too."

Shaw said, "There is no such thing as a mom who doesn't want to be taken out to dinner."

Castle nodded sagely and said to Ryan, "Remember that, young Padewan."

•  
**June 22, 11 p.m.**  
When Aaron Lipschitz arrived at work, there was an envelope containing $75 in his locker with a simple note:

"Thanks for the spinach. - KBC".

**June 22, 11:30 P.M., Charybdis Mental Facility**

Kelly Nieman awoke to find herself curled in a ball, cradling a beautiful doll. Castle had selected a "Girls of the World" doll who looked quite a lot like herself in childhood, with long, dark-brown hair, green eyes, and a dusting of freckles on her nose. The doll was wearing a white nightie with little pink roses, and when Kelly looked across the room, she saw an unbreakable tea party set and a little plastic trunk of what were obviously doll clothes.

She sat up. "Fuck. What is this?" She threw the doll across the room, went to the door, and pounded on it. Having a thought, she ran a hand through her greasy hair, and then looked under her shirt at her unshaven armpits. "Where's Castle? Why didn't he come?" She could tell how long she'd gone because the hair was almost 1/4" now.

She threw herself against the door, over and over. "That motherfucker. He said he'd come. He fucked with me. Well, fuck him. Fuck all of you. You can't have that stupid bitch. You'll never find her. You will never fucking find her and she will die a stupid miserable little death even worse than her stupid miserable little life."

She went for the doll, smashing it repeatedly against the wall, screaming until it fell to pieces.

And then she picked up the pieces and chewed on them, knowing full well that the BPA in vinyl is bad for the health.


	31. Chapter 31

_Dear F – Thanks for your great question about their sleeping all day. Check out the Holmes &amp; Rahe Stress Scale on Wiki. Reading through the article, I'm surprised that war, violence, experience of crime, and assault are not even on the list. I think it should be revised. There's a sort of sickness that hits us after a big rush of adrenaline. It can be really draining. _

_Rick and Kate score very high. They've both been going from pillar to post for weeks, under threat of death and enormous stress. Kate's pregnant, Castle's still healing from some major injuries and had the crap beaten out of him again. Plus marriage, change in work status for Kate, etc. _

_I haven't been injured many times, and I'm grateful to say nobody's punched me since I was 10 (and I sort of deserved it). "Hitting like a girl" can be underrated. I can't imagine what it's like to be punched by a trained, angry martial artist, but I'm guessing it's horrible._

_Having been pregnant and also having dealt with some major stresses (but never having had the crap beaten out of me) it seems reasonable that Kate and Rick would, if wearing earplugs and undisturbed, sleep from 4 am to 6 pm (although likely Kate got up to pee at some point and went back to bed without ever looking at the clock). I've slept 13 hours at a stretch while pregnant or recovering from injury. Not everyone can, but I suspect under those circumstances, these two might._

_Plus it's funnier that way. ;-)_

_Also: who is this mysterious Kai-Rhee Evans? WOML knows... see her story, the 8th wonder, for a taste of her literary prowess._  
•

**Too Soon Chapter 31 – The Court Jester**

_People say I'm the life of the party  
Because I tell a joke or two  
Although I might be laughing loud and hearty  
Deep inside I'm blue  
So take a good look at my face  
You'll see my smile looks out of place  
If you look closer, it's easy to trace  
The tracks of my tears.. - Smokey Robinson_

**June 22, 6:30 p.m.**

Jenny met up with the five of them at Uvek, a sweet little West Side Mediterranean restaurant. The owners were Serbian, and that was their specialty: smoked meats, creamy cheeses, barbeque, plus the usual phyllo-based pastries, amazing breads, hummus, eggplant dishes, casseroles, and salads.

Although it was the Sunday dinner rush, the waitress, Mari, set up their table for "six and a half" quickly and brought them bread and ice water before they even had menus. The men were all a little gobsmacked; she was even prettier than Beckett, and, also like Beckett, seemed completely unaffected by it. Castle and Ryan were meticulously careful not to flirt with her. Esposito felt no such compunction.

"So, uh, Mari, aside from your sweet self, what's the best this place has to offer?" he asked.

"My husband is especially proud of his sausages," she said, brown eyes twinkling. "I never grow tired of them."

Well. So much for flirting with the waitress.

Beckett looked around approvingly at the modest, cheery décor: red-checked vinyl table cloths, fresh red carnations and a votive candle at each table, lace curtains, geraniums in flower boxes peeping in from the open windows, and photos of the Serbian landscape. "Wow, this is so homey," she smiled. "My great-grandfather came from a little village outside Belgrade."

Mari smiled. "Do you speak the language?"

"Only a few words, badly. For starters, 'Gde je toalet?'"

"We share it with the bodega next door. I'll get you the key."

Beckett followed her to the counter. "Thanks. Hey, does the Prysnae have any nutmeg in it?"

"A tiny bit, very subtle." She waggled a stern finger. "My mother says 'You'll eat it. And you'll _like_ it.'" They both laughed.

"Sounds like my mom, too." Beckett took the key, and the others went through the menu while she was gone.

Or at least they intended to. Esposito was not in the mood for sausage, so he chose the smoked chicken plate and a beer, then set down his menu and looked sternly across the table at WriterBoy.

"So," he said. "Who are you, and what have you done with Richard Castle?" He didn't look like he was teasing.

For a few seconds, Castle's face went blank with shock, and then he smiled and took a sip of water. "Sorry, I just don't flirt with waitresses any more. Out of the market."

"That's not what I mean, bro." Esposito pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Look, I was gonna talk with you about this in private, but maybe it's better to have witnesses."

Ryan snickered, "What, is this one of those _'If I tell you I'll have to kill you'_ things?" At Castle's trepidation, Kevin's amusement faded. He glanced at Jenny and Sara Grace, suddenly wondering if they should be there. Jenny had pumped some milk and was trying to get Sara Grace to take a bottle, and Sara Grace was in full-on fuss mode. Ryan sympathized. He liked Jenny's tatas, too, although it was for a completely different reason.

Agent Shaw was suddenly quite businesslike. "Why don't you elaborate, Detective Esposito."

"We all know how 3XK died. We've met Matt and your dad and no doubt you know any number of 'guys' who are on the same caliber. I spent most of today watching footage from the dungeon where you disarmed a serial killer and fought off two more – while limping, with your arm in a cast. A couple of hours ago you rolled out of bed from a dead sleep defending Beckett, and came this close to putting Ryan through a wall."

Ryan rubbed his own elbow. Jenny stared at her husband wide-eyed.

Castle cleared his throat and smiled stiffly. "Just lucky, I g..."

"That wasn't luck, bro," said Esposito.

"I can answer your question," Agent Shaw said quietly.

Esposito nodded appreciatively, then addressed Castle. "First, let _me_ guess. You trained with Kai Rhee?"

Castle's eyebrows shot up. "Good guess!" It seemed to improve his mood a little.

Ryan scowled, even more upset. "So you've been playing us for the fool all this time. You made Beckett think you were a lousy shot then you bulls-eyed a practice target. You beat the..." he glanced over at his little baby, who was absorbing language skills like a sponge. "You beat the tar out of a hit man when we got water-boarded. You act like a total schoolgirl and hide behind it until the going gets rough, and then... (he scowled, nostrils flared and shoulders hunched in a good approximation of Castle-as-raging-bull) "_'whoa- look out, here comes Castle!'_. Yet you managed to let 3XK get away because you weren't aiming to kill. Why is that? How much are you hiding from Beckett? From us?"

Castle closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Shaw glanced up as Kate returned to the table. Kate looked around. "Everything okay?"

"How much do you really know about this guy?" said Esposito.

"She knows enough," Castle said.

Kate looked over at her husband. "I'm developing a real taste for onion."

"I left my onion goggles at home," he shrugged. "There may be tears."

She cupped his jaw and kissed his cheek as she sat next to him, and they clasped hands under the table. Her expression was clear: _"Your move." _

When Kate sat, Mari came to get their order, but seeing the strained mood at the table, she said, "Should I come back?"

Agent Shaw said, "No, no. We're all hungry, let's order now, we just have a lot to catch up on." She smiled her best mom smile and ordered herself kebabs and the beet/celery root salad. Castle found this woman strangely restful... she didn't bother to intimidate simply because she knew she was in charge, and unlike his own mother, she didn't try to take center stage, because she was completely confident of her abilities. He suspected she was exactly the same whether dealing with wait staff, PTA moms, tabloid reporters, or serial killers.

In other words, they were nothing alike. Rick was a chameleon, and he shifted his faces to manipulate his audience, all the time praying that somehow they'd see through the facade and love him for himself. Yet he was sometimes a bit frightened when they actually did. Catch 22.

Kate understood this paradox, and loved him all the more for it, but it could be frustrating. Her walls had been, by comparison, obvious.

They ordered, and when Mari left the table, Shaw said, "When Castle's daughter was kidnapped, we did a thorough background check on him. _Very_ thorough. We found connections to one Michael McGowran over and over through the years, but nothing that implicated Richard Rodgers or the corporate entity known as Richard Castle in any way – at least not until Castle started working on the 3XK case with Beckett. We are all connected, up to eight degrees of separation. But I am convinced that up until the wedding day, Castle barely suspected the devil on his shoulder. Or, rather, the monkey on his back."

Castle scowled over at her. "Why in hell didn't you tell me?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Because we were trying to discern McGowran's movements, and he was one hell of a hacker. Even a blip on his radar could have gotten him into our databases – defensively or aggressively. It was like PacMan. One moment you're chasing him, the next, he's chasing you."

Beckett said, "Did you know McGowran was 3XK?"

Shaw shook her head. "No clue! After the crash, we would have figured it out from the DNA evidence pretty fast, but in terms of deductive reason, that credit goes to Detective Ryan." She smiled at him. "Good job."

Rick and Kate both nodded, and Kate said, "That was the springboard for finding the tunnel."

Well. That was the best Ryan had felt in a long time. Jenny took his hand. "See? I knew it."

Esposito was still scowling a bit at Castle. "Well, that doesn't explain Mr. Now-You-See-Me-Now-You-Don't."

Kate said, "Espo..."

Shaw tilted her head, assessing Castle. "Shall I?"

He shrugged. "It's not for me to tell."

Kate smiled. "You? Not tell a story? It's killing you."

He half-smiled back. "No kidding."

"Go on," Shaw said. "You know you want to." She took a sip of wine and handed the bottle to Jenny, who was looking at it with longing. "You have a lot of milk pumped?"

Jenny nodded. ""I could start my own ice cream factory. You think I could get away with pump-and-dump?"

Shaw said, "It saved my sanity a few times."

Jenny poured herself a scant half-glass of wine and took a sip, savoring as it went down. Ryan started to say something, and Castle gave him a light but smart kick under the table. Ryan mouthed, "Ow." then shut up.

Mari and someone who might have been her little brother brought out a couple of large trays and laid out their soups and salads.

Castle took a sip of water. "Before I was twenty, there had already been three attempts on my life – Michael in preschool, another incident in the woods outside one of the private schools I attended, and then Michael again, in Ireland."

"What woods?" said Kate. "I don't know that part."

Castle shrugged. "Another time. I was also the new kid too many times to count." He looked at Esposito and Ryan. "Your hazing was a picnic compared to some of the shit I dealt with at prep schools..." he glanced at the baby and said more lightly, "Sorry. I mean 'poo.'"

Sarah Grace blew him a raspberry, and he blew one back, and she crowed with laughter.

"Point is, by the time I was 23, I'd already made my first million, had more than one brush with violent death, and I already had my share of obsessive fans. And I had a family to protect."

Esposito's face brightened. "So you got some serious training."

Castle ducked his head in a rather shy, proud smile. "I liked it. I kept at it. The people I met, and the stories they told me, inspired and informed Derrick Storm and Clara Stryke. It started out a bit more fun than ghost-writing romance novels for extra cash."

"Kai-Rhee?"

"Out of many, she's one of the best teachers I've had. I took two weeks off - fall book tours, 2005 and 2009. Gina wanted to kill me. Fortunately I was able to outrun her, and came back all ripped with a fabulous tan, so she forgave me."

Esposito laughed. "Damn, we just missed each other. Spring 2007 and summer 2008."

Kate tasted her soup and hummed happily. "You guys really should eat," she said.

Castle smiled over at her. He loved how much she enjoyed food, and the 'morning' sickness seemed to have abated for the time being. Maybe because she'd finally gotten enough sleep. He made a mental note to find the soup recipe. They all dug in.

Shaw said, "Go on."

"I took a combat boot camp from some former special forces, and I guess word got around that I might make good cannon fodder. Some corporate black ops tried to recruit me for an illegal mission – industrial work."

Esposito glanced at Kate. "You knew about this?"

"Not at first. But I smelled a rat when he brought Derrick Storm back to life, went back through the books. There's a code if you know what to look for, embedded in the text."

"You never told us?"

Kate took a bite of bread and said with a rather full mouth, "Need to know, bro."

"Wait," Ryan looked around anxiously and whispered, "You're a spy?"

Shaw said quietly, "You're all aware Castle has more than one contact in the CIA. He acted as a double agent, carrying out a few missions under cover of researching Derrick Storm and doing book tours, all the while reporting intel back to the good guys."

"Good being … relative," said Castle. "Consider Sophia."

Kate made a sour face. "I'll just consider myself glad that Sophia's history."

"But you killed off Derrick Storm."

"Oh, I tried to. Then it was pointed out that the intel stream dried up at the same time that I stopped writing the books, and that was not conducive to national security, so..." Castle sighed. "Welcome back, Derrick Storm."

"Any secret codes in the Nikki Heat books?" Esposito said.

Castle took Beckett's hand a moment, and squeezed it. "Only the one, and anyone who cares to can read it between the lines."

They exchanged a look so sweet and loving that Ryan got tears in his eyes. Fortunately Sara Grace blew a raspberry again, which made everyone laugh.

They ate and made small talk for a while, and then Esposito said, "So why'd you hide it?" He made a muscle with his biceps. "You know, all this."

Kate said, "Because he's tall."

Shaw nodded. "It happens to my husband Gary all the time. He's a big guy. Once we were just sitting, talking, in a nightclub, and some hotshot came up and picked a fight with him. They'd never met, Gary hadn't given him the stink-eye or anything, didn't even know he was there."

"So Asshat just had something to prove?" said Esposito.

"Yeah, he cold-cocked Gary." She simpered, "I had that kid on the floor and in cuffs so fast, he was in jail before he even knew what hit him."

Beckett nodded. "One of my old boyfriends was six foot three. Total pussycat, but he was a walking target for fist fights."

Ryan said, "Josh?"

Kate scoffed, sarcastic. "No, Dufus. Ancient history." It was Demming, but no point bringing that up.

Castle snorted. "He who dies with the best wife wins." He kissed Kate's hand.

She turned serious eyes on him. "So much wrong with that," she said sharply.

He nodded, chastened. "Sorry."

Mari and her little brother cleared the soup and salad, then set out their entrees.

The team smiled appreciatively, and Esposito asked for hot sauce.

"So," Ryan said, "You're a Court Jester. You can say just about anything, and as long as the King still likes you, you're okay."

"Sort of. Except with jesters, they had to couch the truth in humorous terms. For me, it's more like magic."

Kate said, "Not magic. Prestidigitation. 'Ignore the man behind the curtain'."

"Yes. And sometimes the curtain is iron."

Esposito asked, "So, you still working for them at all?" Mari's brother gave him a little ramekin of hot sauce. "Thanks!" He dipped a pinkie in, tasted it, his eyes bugged out and he took a gulp of beer. "That's the stuff."

Castle shook his head. "No. Not since way before Beckett... Before I even killed Derrick off. I never wanted to work for them in the first place."

"So, why bring Derrick Storm back when you got Nikki Heat?"

Kate smiled over at Castle proudly, and he said, "Give it your best guess."

"He's reengineering the code so that it negates everything the previous books revealed. Covering the tracks."

Castle took a bite of his potato and patted Kate's shoulder. "Bingo."

Shaw said, "Speaking of clandestine activities, I suppose this is as good a time as any to talk about Tiffany Ross."

Castle, who had been happily chomping away on Serbian garlic sausage, set down his knife and fork.

"Not really, but here we are," he said wearily.

"You seem to think she might be in Ireland."

Castle nodded. "It's just a hunch."

"Kayla's lead was solid. We've got a phone record between Grossmann and a burner used at Shannon Airport two days after Tiffany disappeared."

"Damn," said Esposito, and fed Castle's birds, but Castle didn't look particularly pleased with himself.

Ryan added, "That's three for three."

"Ireland's not the biggest country, but it's not New York City either. She could be hidden anywhere," said Kate. She took a bite of her spinach pie. "Oh, my God, this is good."

She broke off a bit and fed it to Castle by hand. "Wow." Maybe he kissed her fingers. Nobody caught him. "Delicious."

"Mm-hmm," she purred. Anything to cheer her man up. He was sinking in to a real funk.

"So when are you two gonna tie the knot?" said Shaw.

"Wait. I thought you two got married when Castle was in the hospital," said Jenny. She looked around. "Didn't they?"

Shaw took a sip of her wine. "Nnnope. No official record." She looked at them reprovingly. "You two are so slow sometimes."

Kate said, "An official wedding sort of fell through the cracks when we checked Castle into the hospital, because of the whole next-of-kin thing. I had the license and Martha vouched for me, so I got to stay in the room with him while he was recovering."

"But you said..."

Castle made an effort to buoy his own mood. "You honestly think we'd have a wedding without you guys there? Anytime or place would be fine with me, but it's kind of the frosting on the cake. To be honest, Kate had me at 'You're under arrest'."

Kate batted her eyelashes at him, and somewhere in equatorial Brazil, a hummingbird thrilled to a lovely faraway breeze caressing its tiny wings. "The first time?"

Entranced, Castle just nodded.

Esposito toasted Castle's water with his own beer bottle, and they drank. "That's a marriage."

Castle continued, "... But a wedding? Whole 'nother thing."

"Other," said Kate.

"Colloquialism," said Castle. "Anyway, once things are settled a little more..."

"Wedding," said Kate. "Everyone we love, barefoot, white linen, pristine tropical beach..."

"Wish you guys loved _me_," Shaw quipped, raising a sardonic toast.

Castle said, "If you help us find Tiffany, it'll be a case of serious like. Your husband and I can avoid fist fights with tall people at the best bar on Molokai." His glance swept back to his friends, who were looking a little pouty. "Oh, come on. You guys, too. No tuxes this time."

Esposito and Ryan fist-bumped, then Esposito pulled out a $20 and handed it over to Jenny. "You called it," he grinned. Jenny put the $20 in her purse.

(That $20 bill had been passed around the 12th Precinct since the Double Down, hitched its way through wallets through the ME's office and Internal Affairs, done a stint at the Mayor's office and back to Castle's wallet, then Esposito's, to Jenny, and never actually been spent by anyone. The stories it could tell.)

Shaw sipped at her wine. "Back to Tiffany. I should remind you that I'm off duty right now, on my dinner break, and this is not official business."

Castle looked around the room. "I'm a citizen consultant. Anyone else here working?"

They all shook their heads. Ryan said, "Sarah Grace is a full-time baby, but it's not paid unless you count the spa benefits."

"Good," said Shaw. "If Interpol gets involved, or the Irish Gardai, your investigation is out of your hands. No matter how good your record is in solving cases, no matter how gifted you are as an investigator, you're out. And I'm pretty sure without all your eyes and ears, it'll grind to a halt."

Castle sighed. "Yeah." He thought of Mo and Betsy. "Noses, too."

"Which leaves Tiffany Ross out of time."

Beckett nodded. "We can't even operate out of state."

Shaw said, "And the FBI's policy is not too flexible on ceding jurisdiction. It's just exhausting, enforcing that. At least I know I'm overworked and I'm deeply concerned I might miss something if I take my eyes off the intrepid twelfth precinct team. In fact, from the looks on your faces, you could all use a vacation."

Beckett frowned. "What, and just forget about..."

"I love Ireland in early summer," said Ryan. "The auld sod, my granny called it."

"Never been," said Esposito. "I hear they drink their beer warm."

Castle shook his head. "'Room temperature' in Ireland is not the same as 'room temperature' in Manhattan in August. You really should try it. On the other hand, I can't say I recommend blood pudding or betting on the horse races. Either way you lose."

Esposito nodded. "Good thing my passport's updated."

"Wait a minute," Jenny said. "There is no way you're going to Ireland without me."

"Problem is the budget," said Shaw.

"Budget? Smudget." said Castle.

"You sold your plane a few years back," said Shaw.

Castle shrugged. "I can charter one."

"And you know a pilot," said Shaw.

"You do?" said Beckett.

"Mm-hmm. Matt. From the farm. The blond guy."

"He's a pilot?

"The best. Feather on the wind. He's useful on the ground, too."

Beckett said, "But... saying we find Tiffany... if things go wrong, who has our backs?"

Shaw smiled. "You just have to do things the Wong way."

"Wong? Oh." Beckett smiled. "I suppose knowing a Senator has its perks after all."

In the previous election, Senator William Bracken had run against and defeated a challenger named Calvin Wong. As his usual MO, Bracken appeared to walk the high road while slithering along the low one. "I would never turn to negative campaigning, especially with repugnant racist overtones. It seems that some of my supporters have resorted to deriding my opponent's good name, using such phrases as the 'Wong Way' to imply that Calvin Wong is incompetent and inexperienced. In my own experience, the truth is much different. I regret that my followers have assessed my opponent's skills based on his family's Asian origins, pitting neighborhood against neighborhood and heritage against heritage in our troubled and divided precincts. It's up to me to unite us once again."

The fact that Wong actually had decades of experience, had created coalitions of neighborhood organizers, and was a third-generation American, somehow was overshadowed by Bracken's rhetoric. It turned out after Bracken's exposure that his election had been rigged in several voting precincts, which technically made Wong the winner. When Bracken was arrested, Wong had stepped into the position, and he was now serving out the rest of Bracken's Senatorial term. Election was coming up in November, and Wong was running... the Wong way. Which appeared to be the right one after all.

When Wong took interim office in early May, one of the first phone calls he made was to Detective Katherine Houghton Beckett: his sincere thanks for serving justice and driving a corrupt man from office, and a request that she put his direct personal number on her speed dial, just in case she needed anything. She'd transferred Wong's number to her burner phone when they went off-grid, after Castle was rescued.

Castle put his arm around Beckett and gave her a cuddly little squeeze. "Now, _who knows a guy?" _he crooned. Betsy would have recognized that lovey-voice anywhere, and it would have made her tail thrash with joy. Kate, however, was not a dog.

Kate chortled, half-irritated and half absurdly pleased with herself. "_I_ know a guy! Who can get us diplomatic immunity if things go south."

"That's right. You do. Yes, you do." He kissed her temple, and she laughed at his mock-condescension. "Who's the best little detective ever?"

She elbowed him gently in the ribs, just for show, and he doubled over, hiding his actual agony under a display of mock pain. The man had layers, we'll give him credit for that.

He looked around the table at their friends, and there were tears in his eyes. "It's one thing to know a guy. We know some really _great_ guys."

They toasted all around. Then Kate said, "I wonder if they have Torta Cokolada."

* * *

•

**7:50 pm**  
After dinner (which was admittedly rather rich and heavy) they walked Shaw back to her hotel, then split up for their respective destinations. At the Three Crowns, the manager, Desiree Asuncion, greeted Rick and Kate kindly.

Rick said, "I'm so sorry for this afternoon's misunderstanding with the police. I'll cover any damages."

She shook her head. "Captain Gates visited the hotel this evening and said it was already taken care of. She was terribly concerned for your welfare."

Castle and Kate exchanged a surprised look, and Castle chuckled. "Yeah, that's a likely story."

"No," snapped Kate. "It isn't."

Struck by her unease, Castle said, "Has anyone been up to our room?"

"Yes, Captain Gates came by with some flowers. Then I guess she and your mother and daughter decided to all go out to dinner together. She asked for a reference to a good restaurant."

Castle cleared his throat. "Did they happen to say where they were going?"

"No, but your mother gave me a little wave and said to tell you she loves you. She's so sweet."

"She..." Castle said. "Have there been uniforms outside all this time?"

"Well, yes, ever since you checked in, we've had a watch on the building..."

He charged outside and stalked over to the marked car. "HEY!" The uni seemed to be asleep. "Wake up!" Traffic being its usual chaos, he went around to the passenger side and rapped on the windshield.

The officer didn't move. Castle pounded on the window, then used his full weight to shake the car. The uni slumped forward over the steering wheel, and Castle saw the needle mark on his neck.

•

"Oh, hell. Why did I not see that coming?" said Castle. He raised his head and jumped, startled by the figure at his elbow.

Kate's face was grim. "Alexis and Marth just drove off with someone who looks like Victoria Gates, in her car, driven by someone who looks exactly like me."


	32. Chapter 32

**Too Soon Chapter 32 – A Family Affair**

_You can't leave 'cause your heart is there  
But, sure, you can't stay 'cause you been somewhere else  
You can't cry 'cause you'll look broke down  
But you're cryin' anyway 'cause you're all broke down_

_It's a family affair – Sly and the Family Stone_

* * *

•

Retired police captain Arthur B. Gates was drinking the last of his cold coffee at 7 pm when his daughter's meticulously-kept red 1998 Crown Vic pulled up into her driveway. She got out, and another woman, average height and slim with long, red hair, stepped out of the passenger seat. A moment later, an older redhead in a peacock-and-teal wrap got out of the back, followed by a tall brunette, model-perfect even from a distance. Arthur watched the four women walking together, unnaturally huddled in step. He called for backup, and having faith they would come, decided not to wait any longer.

When the door closed behind the women and the shades drew closed, he got out of his car, gun drawn, and, staying low, hurried around to the Crown Vic's back fender. Whether or not he approved of Victoria's "lifestyle choice" with That Woman, those were his grand-babies in that house... Whoever had walked into it, wearing his daughter's trademark power pantsuit, had not turned to smile at him; had not walked over to his car to check in; had not brought him his customary cup of joe and a few minutes' catchup time. His relationship with Little Sir had been strained ever since she came out and 'married' That Woman. Vicky tried too hard, and he let her. This woman wasn't trying, and he needed to know why.

On a hunch, Arthur sidled up to Little Sir's car and knocked softly on the fender: _"shave and a..."_

Very softly, she rapped back from the trunk: _"haircut. Two bits."_ Their variation on the old Secret Knock that everyone knows.

Victoria was in the trunk of her own car. He didn't want to fire his gun, too much noise. So he grabbed a piece of landscaping rock and smashed the back passenger window. It had no alarm - she hated the damn useless things - and it was easy to unlock. He slid over, trying to stay out of sight of the house, and opened the trunk latch using the lever by the driver's seat. He slunk back around and peered in through the small gap under the trunk hood.

"Daddy," she said. Her calm voice belied the fear on her face. "I'm glad you had your eyes open."

The old man chuckled. "Eternal Vigilance, Little Sir. You okay in there?"

"Cuffed, but if I have room to move, I'll be able to free up a little."

He glanced up at the house. "They've drawn the curtains. Who are they?"

"I don't know. But one of them might be an actress, Natalie Rhodes. She's had work done, though. They were talking about taking me and the kids. Expecting someone to meet them here." He decided he'd had enough of caution, threw the trunk wide, and reached in for his daughter. Fine-boned, petite, and solid wiry muscle, she took after her mother. He picked her up like the little child she'd been decades ago and set her on the ground, in the shelter of the car. His key didn't fit her cuffs, so she did one of her crazy yoga poses and maneuvered her hands from the back to the front of her body by bending into a U shape then stepping, one foot at a time, between her own cuffed wrists. So now at least she had some freedom of movement.

"You've called for backup." She wasn't asking. She knew he would. He was by-the-book and didn't take unnecessary risks. She glanced over at the house. "We need to get in there now. I don't know..." She froze a moment, and he set aside memories of his own dear little girl for the brilliant police chief she had become. "...I don't know what we'll find." She mastered herself. She had to ride the adrenaline to save her family. No time for tears now.

He nodded and handed her his spare .22 pistol from his ankle holster. "Sir. This'll be easier to hold with the cuffs on." He had his own 38 revolver and billy club. "What's goin' on?"

"I was abducted by two women. Did you see them?"

Her old man nodded. "One of them looked a bit like you. The other one a brunette?"

"Yes. Spitting image of Kate Beckett. Did you see the redheads?"

"They Castle's girls?"

Victoria nodded. "Hard to say whether they'll help or hinder. Castle's mother's a well-meaning ditz, but his daughter's sharp as a tack."

"How do we get inside? Use the garage door opener?"

"Too much noise," she said. But she reached into the glove box. Inside, she found the nifty tool Castle had bought everyone at the Twelfth after Beckett's car took a belly flop into the Hudson. It had a sharp but recessed blade for slicing a seat belt, and a ball-peen hammer head to shatter safety glass.

Arthur glanced around the neighborhood, acutely aware that he was a black man crouched at the fender of a car, and even if the neighbors had seen him in passing, waved hello at him as he watched his daughter's home day after day in his unmarked car, this didn't look so good. "You think the neighbors might help?"

Victoria rolled her eyes. "Doesn't matter if we rent the bounce house for the block party every year, we're still Those Lipstick Lesbos, and we're still black," she sighed. "The neighbors won't be good for much unless they see you breaking in." She paused. "I'm wearing this stupid pencil skirt, so I can't climb the fence. You'll need to help me through the gate or the cowbell will jangle."

Staying low, then close to the house's foundation, they hurried to the gate; he opened and closed it for her, his big hand muffling the bell. She looked up at her dad. "Meet me at the front door in 90 seconds. If I don't open it for you, break it down."

They exchanged nervous smiles. "Good luck."

Victoria peered in through the glass French door leading from kitchen to back patio, and saw her wife, Lisa, bound with duct tape to a kitchen chair, her wrists tied behind her back, her head hanging. There was blood dripping onto her blouse, albeit slowly, some already drying brown at the edges. And of course her doppelganger had taken her keys.

Gates whispered, "Sweet Jesus." She swung the little hammer as well as she could with her cuffed hands and knocked a hole in the glass panel. It had been a splurge with double-paned safety glass and argon gas insulation. Just installed the previous September. They all loved it: the moms could see the kids playing on the wooden structure they'd had custom built, and the view of the backyard in winter sunlight was stunning, with cardinals flitting through the bare branches. Without hesitation, Gates kicked the crumbling safety glass away with her Farragamo pumps, reached in to unlock the door, and hurried to Lisa's side.

Lisa was unconscious and pale, but still breathing, with a gash on her right temple. Exchanging the hammer for the .22 in her blazer pocket, Victoria kicked off her pumps and moved silently through the familiar house. She could hear a Dinky Channel show playing distantly in the family room, and her little daughter crying. She hurried to the front door and let her papa in, and pointed him to the kitchen. "Take care of my wife," she ordered. "Call an ambulance." She was Captain now. He didn't argue.

* * *

•

Martha was really glad she'd taken her blood pressure medication on time that day, because she felt like hell. She and Alexis were both bound and tied, their mouths covered with duct tape, seated on taupe easy chairs. Gates' son, Artie, was so absorbed in the cartoon on TV, and his race car set, and so accustomed to his sister's tantrums, that he hadn't even looked up or noticed what was going on.

Samantha Cubbins, the serial killer impersonating Victoria Gates, was holding Gates' little girl, Zia. Zia was about four, normally not that suspicious of strangers. But this woman's uncanny-valley resemblance to her mama had Zia screaming bloody murder: "WANT MAMA!"

"I am Mama," Cubbins said quietly. "We're going for a little ride soon. Would you like to go for a ride?" She jingled Gates' car keys.

Zia wailed. "I Want MaaaaaMaaaa..." and tried to do a header out of her arms.

"We'll go find Mama as soon as the nice man shows up," she said quietly.

Gates' son didn't look up. "Shut up, Zia! I'm watchin' TV."

The woman dressed as Kate Beckett really had a scary resemblance, only the shape of the eyes and her teeth a little off. She seemed frightened, and oddly apologetic. "Look," she said to Alexis and Martha. "I really didn't know... I'm so sorry. I thought this was just an acting job. I haven't worked since Nikki Heat fell apart."

Cubbins pointed a gun at the actress. "Keep your mouth shut and you won't get hurt," she snapped.

Martha's eyebrows shot up, and she tried to place the name. "_Was it Madelene Street? No. Natalie Rhodes." _

* * *

Salient points elucidated over the next 30 seconds:  
• They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Well, that fury is a tiny little ball of fluffy bunny-poo compared to the wrath brought down by the Gates family if you threaten one of their own.

• It's not really that hard for a 105-pound karate black belt to break through a hollow panel family room door, especially if she's Victoria Gates.

• Natalie Rhodes found that having metal race cars thrown at her by a seven-year-old boy hurts a lot. Being head-butted by Alexis Castle and then stomped on her by her grandma? Even worse.

• Samantha Cubbins, the serial killer impersonating Victoria Gates, learned that just holding Gates' baby-girl as hostage is no guarantee that Mama won't shoot your eye out out with a well-aimed .22.

* * *

•

Victoria Gates was glad she'd paid for the extra-comfort padding and thick carpet on the family room floor. Remodeling had been worth all the expense. But she was going to have to explain to her dojo master that her form had been a bit off. She sat on the floor, nursing a broken foot, holding her little girl and her son.

Her brother Randall Gates, 5'10" and 183 pounds of scary, gorgeous, plain-clothed cop fury, barreled in: "POLICE! FREEZE!" and trained his gun on Rhodes, who was lying on the floor in a ball, with her face in her hands, crying. "I'm so sorry, they made me do it! I was scared!"

Randall cuffed her and called in his location, although he could already hear sirens. Victoria handed him the hammer tool from her blazer pocket, and using the recessed blade to cut the tape on their wrists, he freed the redheads. Indicating the silvery tape across their mouths, he said, "You might find it less painful if you do it yourselves. Make it fast."

The older redhead nodded, and winced as she yanked the tape off. "I've had worse treatment at a spa in New Jersey," she announced. "But just barely." She was trying to hide her shock, averting her eyes from the dead woman in the power pantsuit.

Randall fished around in Cubbin's pockets to find the cuff keys and her wallet, then grabbed a throw off the sofa and covered Cubbins' body and splattered brains. The young redhead ripped her own tape off and said, "We have to let my dad know we're okay. They took our phones and tossed them off the bridge."

Captain Gates was sitting on an ottoman, with her daughter in her lap and her son under one arm, cuddling them. "Lend Ms. Castle your phone, Officer Gates, would you please?"

Randy nodded, and Alexis called Castle. "Daddy! No, Dad, we didn't get thrown off the Brooklyn Bridge. That was just our phones. We're fine. Gram too." She paused and said kindly. "Are you okay?" She paused again, listening, and then the tears came. She pressed her hands over her eyes. "I know. I love you too, Dad. Hey, listen. We're at Captain Gates' house. We're fine. Gram too. It was crazy! There's a loony actress here. Really, Dad, she is just Kate's spitting image."

Natalie looked miserably over at Alexis. "Is that Rick? Tell him Natalie Rhodes says hi."

"Uh, Natalie says hi, Dad." Alexis glanced up at her with an uncertain pout. "Dad says 'Way to obey the restraining order, Natalie.'"

"They were planning to kill Kate!" Natalie cried. "I was just waiting for my chance to help."

Captain Gates scowled at her. "Did it occur to you to contact the police?"

"Not exactly. I thought..."

Gates was still talking to Natalie. "Then zip it. Randall, read her rights. I need to see Lisa." She looked down at her kids, then over at the body on the floor, and sighed.

Alexis left the room, resuming the conversation with her father as she watched first three patrol cars, then an ambulance, pull up. "See you as soon as you get here."

Martha reached for the little girl, and slung her on a skinny hip. "I'm still in pretty good shape for an old broad," she said. Zia laid her head on Martha's shoulder (she smelled nice) and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Gates gave her son's hand to Martha and said, "Why don't you take your sister upstairs with Ms. Rodgers and have her read you a story."

Artie said, "But Mama..."

"Now. Artie, it's okay. We'll just be a few minutes down here."

Artie nodded reluctantly, and turned to Martha. "Do you like comic books?"

"Do I!" she laughed. "Show me what you've got. I can't wait." They went up the stairs and out of Alexis' sight.

* * *

Randall Gates led Natalie out and into the waiting hands of the local patrol officers. He went back for his sister, who was trying to hobble out on her own. He stooped and easily picked her up. She said, "Oh, stop it, Randy," and punched his arm, but not that hard.

"You'd take three times as long just toddlin' to the kitchen, Little Sir." He grinned maddeningly, and she fumed at him, and he kept walking.

She said, "Don't call me that," and he hefted her a little.

"You gain some weight?"

"Asshole." Then she was on the floor with her dad and her wife, and That Woman Lisa was coming around and gave her a feeble smile, and the old man had put a pillow under That Woman's head, and he was holding That Woman's hand, and Victoria had her family back together for the first time. She smiled up at her dad, and he said apologetically, "Better late than never?"

She nodded. "Yes, Daddy." Then the EMTs came in and it was time to take Lisa to the hospital.

Randall helped his dad up off the floor. "Let's go upstairs and you can meet your grandkids."

Arthur held back. "I dunno, they've been through a lot. Maybe now's not the time."

Victoria said, "Daddy. You did fine with us. You'll do fine with them."

So he did.

•

Castle and Kate picked the redheads up from Gates' house, and they all went down to the 12th Precinct. With Rick sitting by to support them, Martha and Alexis gave their statements to Ryan and Esposito, who had returned to work. Kate was itching to interrogate Natalie, and since Gates wasn't there to tell her no...

Jordan Shaw showed up a few minutes later, wearing sweats and no makeup, her wet hair plastered into a bun. She smiled with grim amusement at the sight of Kate Beckett paced silently around the room like a tiger, gathering her thoughts. Natalie Rhodes cowered in the hot seat. Shaw murmured "This is gonna be fun."

She was sort of wrong about that. It wasn't at all fun for Natalie.

•

Jackson Hunt appeared at the 12th, rushed in to the open break room where Rick was making decaf lattes, and to everyone's shock, threw his arms around Martha, then hauled Alexis in for a hug as well. Both women went stiff as boards.

"Where were you?" Martha snapped.

He released them and backed off. "I, uh..."

Alexis came at him, furious, jabbing him in the chest with an index finger. "She was worried sick about you. Could you have just let us know? _Anything_?"

Jackson blinked. "You were worried about _me_?"

Rick hid a smirk and mumbled, "Here goes..."

"Now listen here," Martha said. "You may be used to coming and going where- and however you please, but that is not the way we do things in this family. We've had too many accidents and near misses and kidnappings and... and... _look_. If we can't depend on you to be there for us, just - just go."

Kate heard her hollering from the interrogation room. Yes, supposedly it's soundproof. Kate just smiled to herself, which made Natalie even more nervous.

"Is that what you want?" Jackson said.

"What I want? What do _you_ want?"

He looked like he'd rather face down a phalanx of ninjas with razor-edged boomerangs than answer the question.

Martha continued, "Why is it that... those people who've ruined your goddamn life can depend on you, but we can't?"

Rick began, "Mother, best to take this off the record."

Martha was not to be dissuaded. "I don't know who you really are, or who you think you are, but you can't just disappear for forty-three years with all your... derring-do, then waltz back into our lives and then wander away AGAIN! Without so much as a...

"Look. I can't be public about my comings and goings. That should be clear to...

"This is not about going public. This is about being a responsible adult..."

Kate pushed herself away from the interrogation table. "Excuse me."

She left Natalie alone to stew in her own terrified juices, strode to the break room, and quietly took Martha by one arm, Jackson by the other.

"Come with me."

Still glowering at one another, they followed her to the supply closet. Martha said, "What's in there?"

"Inside," Kate said.

Jackson scowled at her. "If you think..."

"Apparently I'm thinking a little clearer than either of you," Kate said. "You have something to discuss in private, and you're distracting my team. So go in, or get out."

Jackson glared a moment at Kate, then something seemed to soften. He took Martha's arm and led her into the supply closet. Kate said, "Watch out for the mop bucket," and closing the door, locked it behind her.

She popped her head back in to the break room. "Espo, let them out in seven minutes."

Esposito nodded. "You got it."

•

Kate went back to the interrogation room. Natalie was crying again, and Jordan Shaw had brought her tissues and a glass of water. Kate and Jordan sat together, and Jordan smiled coldly at the trembling B-list bombshell.

"So," said Jordan. "Detective Beckett tells me you can get a little bit obsessive."


	33. Chapter 33

•

**"Devil Inside"**

_Here comes the woman  
With the look in her eye  
Raised on leather  
With flesh on her mind  
Words as weapons sharper than knives  
Makes you wonder how the other half die  
Other half die_

_Here come the man  
With the look in his eye  
Fed on nothing  
But full of pride  
Look at them go  
Look at them kick  
Makes you wonder how the other half live_

_The devil inside  
The devil inside  
Every single one of us the devil inside_

**Too Soon Chapter 33 – The Devil Inside**

**June 24, 7:30 a.m.**

Richard Castle was having an "errands" sort of day. Some of those errands were accomplished by an assistant named Elvis Hormel, whom he occasionally hired through Black Pawn. Elvis was a perky kid, fresh out of college as a Liberal Arts major, and almost pathetically glad to have a job that wasn't either making coffee (too often) or scrubbing floors after hours at Target. Castle was grateful for the help, grateful that Gina and Paula and the others at Black Pawn had his back. This was all (by a certain stretch of the imagination) book research. They assured him it would all be accepted as part of his compensation package, especially if he promised to hurry a chapter along. He actually didn't care at all about the money. He just cared about the hassle, preferring to focus on the story. Not that he'd been writing anything except Kelly Nieman's blow-by-blow accounts of her own depredations for the last few weeks. But that was still source material, and he had the option of using it. As long as he didn't get killed, everything was going to work out all right in the end. And if he did get killed, his estate was big enough for Kate to buy an island and start her own republic.

He'd reminded Kate as much over breakfast, and she'd shrugged. "No banana republic for me, Castle."

"Well, you could buy a Canadian lake, have an island fortress engineered, and start a Maple Syrup republic. It would be..."

"Don't say it."

"Sweet."

"You _had _to say it," she groaned, smacked him and took a bite of pancake.

"It was a moral imperative."

She took a sip of coffee. "Morals? You?"

"You break my heart, Beckett. Really you do."

"Really?"

He kissed her. "Not any more."

•

**8 a.m.**  
After the rescue of Elise Mowry, Castle had made himself an emergency appointment at the University hospital orthopedics unit. They gave him a 24-hour turnaround time. It was hard to go in so early, and he could tell the doctors and engineers had been up all night messing with the design. They re-scanned his arm, adjusting the fit to accommodate slight muscle atrophy and a reduction in swelling around the smashed bone. This time they printed the mesh in a heavier-duty but more flexible plastic, and, since his wrist had mostly healed, the cast was also shorter from wrist to ¾ of the way up his elbow – which gave him substantially more freedom of movement, although his fingers were still immobilized.

They say money can't buy happiness, but with the right donation to a hospital research facility, it can buy you a bleeding-edge, masculine yet elegant, battle-ready yet lightweight mesh electronic microstimulation cast for a broken wrist.

After the old cast is removed but before the new cast is placed, enough money can get you the best physical therapist in the business to massage and manipulate said wrist and tell you, "Hey, I've seen much worse atrophy, you're doing great, just keep wiggling your fingers but hold back on the punching people until next February or so."

If you throw in a box of fresh cronuts, a case of the best root beer money can buy, and VIP tickets to NYCC 2014 for the entire staff plus autograph signing with the fictional captain of a TV starship... money and connections will get you a concealed, easy-to-use, and truly wicked taser installed inside the wrist.

Castle tested it out on a target mannequin. The taser didn't have lines, just fired barbs that kept a quick, hot charge long enough to drop a 200-lb man to his knees. The project lead, a Dr. Simons, said drily, "Did you want a booze flask installed while we're at it?" and Castle actually had to consider whether the man was joking.

"No. It'll just make awkward sloshing noises," he grinned. "Thanks, guys." He left the facility humming "Eye of the Tiger" under his breath, amid the sound of root beer bottles being popped by people who know a good thing when they've been up all night perfecting it.  
It wasn't a robot arm, but it was good enough for detective work.

**9:30 a.m.**  
Castle arrived at the 12th in a big hurry, and barely waved hello at his partners...

...his _partners_! … damn, that still made him _so_ happy. He stopped in his rush and went back to check in on them. "Hey. Hope you weren't up too late."

Ryan grinned, "Oh, no, I slept like a top after a few stiff drinks. Walking in on your folks in the supply closet..." he shook his head.

Castle winced and stuck his fingers in his ears. "Say no more!" He then spoke to Esposito. "You heard from Gates this morning?"

"Yeah, she's taking a couple days off. Her wife's fine, they're just hanging out, having a little family reunion." Esposito said, "You get to meet her dad?"

Castle nodded. "Old Man Gates? I see where she gets it."

Ryan and Espo nodded, commiserating. "How are Martha and Alexis?"

Castle considered. "Alexis is good. Mother..." his head tilted. "I want this all over for her, as much as anyone. She's not young any more."

Esposito smirked. "Well, neither are you, and you're holding up fine." He and Ryan fistbumped at the back-handed compliment.

"Ooh. Speaking of fists... bump this at your peril." He held up his new cast. Ryan and Esposito stared at it, fascinated.

"Bat-Cast?" said Ryan.

"Does it shoot webs?"

Castle grinned and showed them the features. "Let's just say the concealed carry permit comes in handy."

"Handy. Ow. Good one," said Ryan.

Esposito slapped Castle's back, hard. "Let us get back to work or we'll make you fill out forms in triplicate."

"I'll leave that for Beckett. She's still a bit green about the gills, but she should be in by 10."

**9:15 a.m.**  
Castle stopped by Tori Ellis' office. She half-smiled at him, her eyes exhausted, still keying intel on her keyboard. The woman never stopped. He wondered about that briefly, then decided Kate was enough of a puzzle to last a lifetime, and let the question go.

He said "Hey. May I get you a coffee?"

She shook her head. "No, I'll just go home and sleep this off. Gates gave me the OK to do the overtime, but... I've had it." She tapped away at her keyboard. He watched the two-minute video silently, then closed his eyes. "Wow. That poor kid."

Tori blinked back tears, and Castle hesitated, wanting to put an arm around her but fairly certain that would be considered unprofessional. He said, "Nobody should have to go through that, and here we are, freaked out just by watching it."

She said, "I got into this field because I wanted to help people."

He nodded. "I know. And you do a good job."

"Look," she said. "You just take this disgusting little piece of death porn and make my effort worth it. Okay?"

Castle nodded. "I'll do my best," he said.

She added very quietly, "The FBI's found thousands of hours of footage in 3XK's... den. I'm pretty sure they cataloged some of you and Beckett. Alone."

Castle's stomach clenched, sick. "I thought that might float to the surface. 3XK told me he'd watched us. He had cameras..."

"Not being surprised doesn't help, does it?"

Rick shook his head. His hands were shaking. "If I hadn't already killed him, I'd be ripping his head off right now."

Tori nodded. "If anyone asks me to analyze those files, would you like me to recuse myself?"

Castle thought about it, then smiled ruefully. "If we have a choice at all, I think that's really up to Beckett. I'm... I'm really not ashamed of a single moment I've spent with her. The breach of privacy is the crime, not whatever we've done in our own bedrooms. I'd almost rather it was you than a stranger. So – it's up to you, and to Kate, if the task is assigned to you at all. Are you all right with that?"

Tori nodded. "Yeah, I guess I'll just play it by ear." She ejected an SD card. "Ok, so here's the movie for your little camera. I'm sure Dr. Nieman will think you're the best serial killer since Son of Sam."

Rick smiled ruefully. "I've been framed by the very best." He pulled out the little silver camera, and tucked the SD card in. He smiled tightly at Tori. "Showtime."

•

**9:45 a.m.**  
His next stop was Charybdis Island. Despite the exhausting pace of the last few days, taking that day off to sleep, make love with Kate, and not see Kelly Nieman had truly recharged his batteries. But when the town car drove across the bridge, reached the forbidding outer gates of Krimby Psychiatric, his mood abruptly tanked.

"Crap," he murmured. He was dismayed to see a press van parked outside. He was glad the windows were tinted, and he kept his head down. He had no interest in talking to WHNY about why he was visiting the facility.

•  
As she sipped on some herbal tea and started in on her pile of paperwork for the day, Ryan put his hand on her shoulder and nodded up at the TV news screen mounted on the wall. Kate was watching the news feed when the town car pulled up to the Krimby Psychiatric gates. Castle's new assistant, Elvis Hormel, stepped out first; she noticed with amusement that he was wearing a red button-down shirt.

Thinking along the same lines, Ryan said, "I wonder whether the kid will survive the day?"

Onscreen a reporter rushed Hormel. "Can you tell us whether alleged serial killer Kelly Nieman is being held in this facility?"

"No, I'm sorry," Hormel said. "Even if she were, that's confidential information and I wouldn't be at liberty to tell you." He looked nervously at the camera. "Nothing to see here, folks. Move along."

Meanwhile, Castle (who was almost pathologically punctual) had climbed out the other door and was making for the guarded entrance, moving rather stiffly. Kate sighed. He'd been through so much physically over the past month, and he looked... well, more rugged than handsome. She knew it was hard on his vanity, and she didn't really care, but he did.

The news crew charged past Elvis and cornered Rick at the barred steel gate.

"Amy Worthington here with WHNY – Manhattan's Hottest News, where the viewer comes first!" She shoved her mic in his face, thinking of him as the publicity hound he'd never actually been. "Richard Castle, mystery writer and sometime consultant to the NYPD's 12th precinct homicide division, is speaking with us now."

Rick said, "Sorry, you're just talking _about_ me. So good luck with that. I have no further comment." Amy Worthington's mouth flapped open in shock. Castle had always been somewhat flirtatious with her before. Not to be deterred, she continued: "Mr. Castle, is it true that you helped apprehend the South Bronx Serial Killers?" Castle kept walking. To Kate's eye he was clearly trying to hide the limp that had been re-instigated by his fight in the dance studio. Her heart ached for guard admitted him and Elvis, and the gate rolled open, then closed behind them.

The reporter shouted after them, The reporter persisted. "Do you have any comments about the sex tapes?"

Kate watched Castle pause. He turned and looked at Worthington, saying nothing, but Kate murmured, "Oh, no." In the few times she'd seen that expression on his face, people had gotten seriously hurt.

As for Amy, she suddenly felt glad there was a gate, locked and barred, between herself and her prey.

And then he smiled and said lightly, "Amy. I'll give you a little exclusive on this _particular_ case."

Amy brightened up. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Amy Worthington with WHNY-TV, Manhattan. I have an exclusive comment from Richard Castle."

Castle smiled at the camera, oozing charm (which was a mixed bag considering he'd had his ear sewn up two days before and his jaw was still a bit bruised and swollen). "It turns out that just about all people pick our noses when we think we're alone. Amy, surely you're no exception."

Amy looked at the camera uncertainly. "And that's all from Ri-"

If Kate ever wondered whether Martha had given Rick training in projecting his voice to the very last seat in the house, she wondered no longer: "Amy. I'm sure if you put a little cam far enough up your own nose, you'll find the atrophied remnants of a brain somewhere around the back of your skull." It was _loud_, but he said it so sweetly it almost sounded like a compliment.

Slow comprehension dawned across her arftully made-up face. She turned to the cameraman anxiously and touched her earpiece. "Did that broadcast?... Shit." It went viral, and his book sales went up 7% over the course of the following 48 hours. Between that and the FBI's managing to leake sex tapes with his fiancee, well, let's just say he owned the internet until the next big thing came along.

•

**10 a.m.**

Castle and Hormel passed into the waiting room. Castle patted his pocket. "Ok. Scarf. Camera. Got the handcuff key?"

"No, Dr. Patel said she'd give it to you when you get here."

"And did they have any trouble getting the latte machine installed at the cafeteria?"

"Not a bit. I spoke to the supervisor. Apparently the entire staff is now high on espresso, and she has offered to remember you in her prayers."

Castle grinned. "Good. That saves us a step." Minsky came to meet Castle, and Elvis waited behind, typing along merrily on his tablet. Minsky already had Nieman's Beckett-style latte in hand. They navigated the long hallways and locked doors; Dr. Aruna Patel joined them on the way.

"How is she?"

Patel sighed and shrugged. "She went to bed a sad little four-year-old and woke up a serial killer. I think Dissociative Identity Disorder is a strong possibility."

Castle knew a little about it from researching a novel; he'd also read Sybil. "You don't think she's faking it."

The doctor's brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You found Elise Mowry indirectly through a hint that Rosie O'Shaunessy gave you. She is deeply conflicted. A part of her wants everyone else to suffer as she has. She seems excited that you've expressed an interest in killing the other girls. But a part of her knows what it's like to be in their position. And she does want your unconditional devotion. Whether she wants you to save them, and her, or kill them, and her..."

Castle sighed. "Maybe it's all of the above."

Patel said, "May I see the video before you show it to her?"

Castle hesitated.

She said gently, "Believe me, my dear man. I have seen it all."

He showed it to her, and under the soft brown of her skin, the blush drained away. She said, "It's very convincing. I cannot believe, even now, that people will do such things."

Castle nodded. "We just have to remember we're trying to stop it."

"Yes." She nodded down the hallway, where Kelly Nieman awaited him. "Go on, then. Perhaps this will earn her trust." Patel handed him a little steel handcuff key, which he placed in his left front pocket. "Just remember: tie her first, then unlock the cuffs. We'll be close if you need us. She's a handful today." Minsky handed Rick the tall cup, which she'd ordered prepped at the cafeteria on their brand-new espresso machine. "I'm sorry it's not a tea sort of day."

Minsky let Castle into the pink room, and he set the latte on the table by Kelly Nieman's hand. He followed the script: "How's my muse?" and she offered her cheek for a kiss. There were bruises on her forehead where she'd been banging her head against the wall, before they sedated her and put her in the Soft Refuge (a padded room by any other name). Minsky closed the door behind him with a grimace.

If you were a friendly alien trying to discern human expressions, you would have mistaken Kelly's for a smile, very shortly before she made you die a slow and horrible death. She said, "Don't forget, I'm patting you down for recording devices."

Castle put a finger to his lips for quiet, and sat next to her. Then, reaching down into his pocket, he produced a long, colorful paisley scarf, and a little steel key.

She sneered at the scarf, which was a good meter's length of translucent silk, in summery greens and pinks, purples and golds. "Is that Kate's?"

He shook his head. "No! Bought it for you. He stroked her cheek. "Flatters your skin." He looked anxiously at the door. They both knew that scarves were not allowed.

He had some experience both with knots and scarves. He tied her hands together at the wrists and then to the length of cuff chain. It was tough to twist the key with his left hand, but the lock gave with a metallic click. He opened the cuffs and set them on the table with exaggerated, silent care. With the metal's heft removed, her hands felt light. She flexed her fingers, then brought the fabric up to her nose and inhaled deeply.

She smirked. "That's been in your pocket long enough to smell like you."

"I'm sorry," he purred. "Does that bother you?"

"Not at all." She smiled. "I'm going to pat you down, now."

He nodded, his voice low, seductive. "All right." She ran hands – finally free! - over his chest, his belly, his back, his groin. Felt what she wanted to feel, and it was even better than she remembered. She found the camera in his back right pocket, and set it on the table. "Did you bring me a surprise?"

"Maybe." He had his back to her, obliging her exploration, and caught his breath sharply. He was shaking, his hands clenched. For a tiny moment she was afraid, but when he turned to her, he was smiling.

"Find any wires?" he asked. His voice was husky.

"No," she smiled, "Do you want me to keep looking?"

"Not just yet. I'm still waiting to hear the story."

"Which one?"

"How did you kidnap the girls?" His pen poised eagerly over the note pad. "Did you lure them in, trap them, ambush them?"

"You should know, I'm sure it's all over the papers."

"Nope. Nothing. The FBI's sitting tight on the info because they don't want copycats."

Kelly looked disappointed. "Really."

"Yeah. What did you expect?"

"Oh, I don't know. Notoriety? We were careful not to leave a trace. We were hoping for alien abduction theories. Conspiracies."

"The FBI won't even admit the girls were kidnapped by the same team."

"What the _fuck_," Kelly fumed. She grabbed a cigarette to tamp the flame of her own anger. "Light me up."

Rick obeyed her, hiding his frustration as she sucked and spewed death around the room. Finally he said, "I need to understand this. He was my brother. If you want me to surpass him... I need to know the methods. The motives. The opportunities that presented themselves."

Kelly blinked. "So it's all about Michael, then." Her voice was cold and flat.

Rick erupted out of the chair and before she could even react, he had her by both wrists, in his one huge hand. He squeezed a nerve in her wrist with his thumb, and she dropped her cigarette on the floor, grunting with frustration. Then she laughed, and he shoved her, just hard enough to register, not hurt her. He was walking a fine line, and it scared the hell out of him. He hid that as well as he could, using the adrenaline. "Michael's dead," he seethed, his face only inches from hers. "We killed him together. So this is about us, Kelly. You're right. It's me and you."

"Kiss me," she said.

Without hesitation, he kissed her, hard, her mouth the mouth of hell itself, his hand still encasing her wrists, knowing she couldn't do him too much damage with her feet cuffed to the floor. She opened to him, and he fought revulsion, fought the memory of another kiss from her decades before, when she'd overdosed him on heroin and left him in a squat house to die. He forced himself to stay with the kiss, deepen it, and she moaned. But he knew better, he could feel her coiling like a snake. Just before she bit him, he pulled back and shoved her hands down into her own lap. Her teeth snapped together, and she grunted. "Almost felt like you meant it," she sneered

He fought it, mightily, the urge to wipe his mouth, to spit on the floor, the longing to swab his mouth with bleach. He narrowed his eyes and smiled, pressing her bound hands hard into her crotch. She spread her knees apart, grinding against her own palm. He put his hands on her shoulders, holding her so that she could not reach him, and he bitterly understood what the Greeks meant about Medusa turning men to stone with her gaze. Her expression was meant to be alluring, but there was something devouring and horrible about it.

"You touch yourself thinking about me, don't you?" he said. "You've watched me. You know what I can do to a woman, when I want to make her feel good. I could unspool you like a ball of yarn."

Her eyes burned into his. "Go ahead and try."

"I'll do better than that," he whispered. "You wanna see something sexy?"

She raised an eyebrow in curiosity, and he shoved her back slightly, and sat down next to her, handing her the camera. She took it eagerly, and clicked "Play".

Elise Mowry was dancing in her Swan Lake tutu, her face painted like a doll's, the eyes deeply shadowed, the lips a smeared red. The climax from Swan Lake was playing in the background, and as she spun, a demon leapt out from the shadows and threw her to the floor. He pawed and licked her as she struggled and kicked to no avail. Then he picked her up and dragged her to the curtained bed area. The camera's point of view bumped along clumsily as its operator walked the tripod over to the scene. The man in the demon makeup had the girl on his lap, pawing at her as she squirmed and tried to push his hands away. That was real. That was Elise Mowry bargaining for her life.

Watching, Kelly Nieman leaned against Castle and put her hand on his thigh, then licked her lips. "Tacky, but effective," she murmured. Castle blanked his mind through much of it, wishing he didn't have to see it at all, wishing he could be anywhere else.

Then, on the tiny, grainy screen, the curtain was yanked open, and there was Richard Castle himself, in glorious low-res Liquid Crystal Display. The tripod, which was positioned to monitor the bed, caught only part of the action: Castle and the man in the demon suit fighting, Castle landing hard on his ass, the girl watching, then pulling up her courage, attacking Castle from behind, and her flying back onto the bed, stunned. The camera did not see his face when he turned to her in concern, but it did reveal Elise's shocked recognition. LCD Castle walked in front of the camera, and a lens flare obscured his actions for a moment as a drape fell.

Hitchcock used a similar approach when he made "Rope", whose clever transitions made the film seem as if it had all been made in one take. It was there the actors took over.

A long time ago when putting himself through college, Martha had gotten Rick a temp job as a stand-in for a soap opera star named Nat Williams. They had looked reasonably alike, been the same height and build, and sometimes when they wore identical outfits during production, Rick was mistaken for him. Now Nat Williams was washed up and earned most of his income in soft-core porn and convention appearances. Rick had suggested him to play the role in their little fake snuff movie, and had him flown in from Pasadena on a Concorde. Jordan Shaw found an actress to sub in for Elise.

On the LCD, Nat Williams stepped to the bed. Shaw had even added the touch of having the "demon" lunge at "Castle" again. Williams wheeled and shot the stunt man with blanks loaded into a .44 magnum, and the stunt man collapsed unceremoniously and shuddered on the floor, nothing like what you see on TV but everything like what happens at a real gun death. The actress playing Elise shrank back on the bed in terror. Since Nat still resembled Rick, and Elise's face was mostly obscured by makeup, it wasn't so hard to fake her slow and cruel death by multiple stab wounds, complete with copious corn-syrup blood on the tutu and sheets, and a kiss to the "corpse" that made Rick's skin crawl. Then "Rick" cast about the scene, found the camera from whose point of view the whole fake murders had been recorded, and put a bloody left glove over the lens as he picked it up to remove the SDS card. Shaw had even thought to put a cast on Williams' right hand, with the glove slashed to accommodate it, and for the most part Williams remembered the limp. He was pretty gifted – a shame his career had gone nowhere. 

Kelly Nieman was frowning. "I don't... was that really you?"

Rick dipped his head around so she could look more closely at his right ear. "What, the bite doesn't look real?"

She peered at it, smirking. "Whoever sewed it up is a hack."

"Locatelli. I couldn't exactly go to the hospital."

"Jaysus-Mary-Feckin'-Joseph, couldn't you come to me?"

"Kelly. They won't even let you have a needle and thread."

She giggled. "More's the pity." Then she grew serious. "So this is why you were gone so long?"

He nodded. "Took a day to find her, then another to get myself patched up."

"What about Kate?"

He wrinkled his nose derisively. "We're on the outs."

"No. Really?"

"She's nosy. Wants me to tell her my every. Goddamn. Movement. After everything she kept from me, now..."

"All she wants to do is pry, pry, pry?"

"Let's just say that for now, Kate's access makes my new hobby easier. But that won't last forever."

Kelly smirked. "I never thought it would." She rewound to the scene with Williams stabbing the actress, then licking the blood from her made-up face. "So how did you find Little Miss Mousey Mowry?"

"I'm like Michael. I have a good memory, but I needed time to piece it together."

"And how did you get in?"

He grinned at her. "You gave me the password."

"I _what?_"

"Hide and seek. You told me the other day, when we were having tea."

Her face went stony. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You had some kind of episode. Hid under your bed. Told me..."

"_NO!"_ She glowered at him, then lunged, hissing, held down by her tied hands. _"I don't know what you're talking about!" _Her gaze swept the room, paranoid, and he realized that she did not want one part of herself to know what the other part of herself was up to. She looked genuinely frightened for a moment. 

He pushed his chair back and away from her, watching her carefully. "No. Of course not. My imagination. It must have been something Michael said that tipped me off."

"That must be it," she nodded. The skin at the edge of her flared nostrils was white with tension.

He said, "Cigarette?"

Her shoulders slumped, the tension dissolving. "God, yes. No wonder I'm such a bitch. I feel like I haven't had a smoke in days." He lit her second cigarette and she sucked the smoke in as if it had descended from the ceiling of a depressurized airline cabin. She looked regretfully at the camera. "You'll want to destroy the card."

"I wish I could keep it. Would make a great trophy." But like the previous card, he dropped it onto the floor and smashed it with his heel.

"You trashed all the other cameras, of course."

He nodded. "A the dance studio? Yes, this one just had the best angle. I replaced all the other cards with spares they had lying around."

"And what became of the other two men?"

Castle shrugged. "I think the South Bronx cops will figure it's a murder-suicide. Not every precinct has a Richard Castle."

She ducked her head. "You think of everything, my lad."

"I've had good teachers over the years. Speaking of that..." he poised his pen over a notepad. "I'm ready if you'd like to tell me more."

She tapped her cigarette over the ashtray, a gray chunk falling into the stained yellow bowl. "Yehhhh," she sighed. "Did you go upstairs in the Bronx place?"

Castle shook his head. "Nope. Got in. Did my thing. Got out."

"That was Michael's center of operations. Where he ran most of it, at least on the East Coast. He had other places in Chicago, San Francisco, Seattle, Miami of course..."

"The fishing line. Carl Matthews..."

"Yeh! And L.A. Also Galveston for a while, but we both hated Texas. Feckin' hot, and the _worst_ green salads..."

"Why would Michael need a center of operations?"

"He wasn't just a killer. That was his... passion, but he was also a fine businessman. We have expensive tastes. And as you know, there were times when he'd get himself into jail just to lay low, have others carry out his edicts and throw cops off the trail."

"Really."

She smirked. "The Bayley Slough murders in 2003?"

"No shit."

"Not all of them, of course. But enough. Including the 3XK killings that brought you and Kate into the investigation."

"You mean he brought us in on purpose?"

She laughed. "He'd kept track of you, of course. Wanted to see if you could crack him. He almost won the game."

"He was pretty pissed when I figured it out."

She stubbed her cigarette out. "Oh, you have no idea," she chuckled. "But they weren't the only ones. Surrogates took on the rest. And he needed the income to orchestrate everything – murder is cheap, but covering tracks is expensive."

"Did he devise them all himself?"

"No, love." _Did she really say that?_ He let it pass. "It was a sort of exchange; he had a group of cronies, they'd all bounce ideas off one another. Fantasies. He had a fine imagination." She raised an eyebrow then reached a finger over to caress Rick's healed cigarette burn. "So do I."

"Did he ever consider just writing about it?"

"Ha! He did a book and a screenplay, but he couldn't write dialog worth shite. Frankly... you're the better wordsmith. He did _not_ appreciate rejection letters."

Rick found himself feeling unreasonably pleased by that, and allowed himself a smug grin. He leaned in closer to her and purred, "I am something of a silver-tongued devil."

Kelly narrowed her eyes. "From the women I've seen in your bed, I'd say more like gold." 

The corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly, and his pupils shrank, making his eyes look cold and hard as ice. Then it was gone in a blink. She'd seen the same look flit across Michael's face, just before he killed people. Kelly smirked and ran a clipped-too-short fingernail down his jaw. "Such a fine line between desire and pain."

He reached down to the floor, collecting the SDS card bits. She slid her hand along the muscles of his back, pulled his shirt up. "Stay down a moment. I want to see something."

"All right," he gritted, scowling at the floor.

She looked at the deepening purple bruise along the base of his spine. "You must've bruised your tailbone something fierce in that fight," she murmured.

"Yeah."

"I imagine it hurt like a son-of a bitch."

"Still does. Can I sit up now?"

She jabbed at the bruise, hard, with her fingertips. He yelped in pain and surprise. Straightening abruptly, he banged his head on the table's underside, saw stars, and cursed. "What the fuck?" Nauseated from the impact, he got up and backed away from her.

She chuckled. "Just making sure you weren't putting me on," she said. "That screen's pretty small."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, come on, Ricky. You've got money. You've got connections. You've done a little acting."

"I don't understand." His heart was hammering in his ears, and he could barely think. The thought of everything falling apart made him dizzy. It was too soon. He hadn't found Tiffany yet. Fuck. Had she seen through the ruse? Had he let everyone down?

"Just because you killed the other two girls, do you think I'm gonna just give it away?"

"What do you want, Kelly."

She'd waited two years to say this to them. Since her very favorite night of the Rick and Kate Show. "You. I just want you."

His lips parted, then closed again. _"Oh. God. Oh, god. No, no, no." _He stalked toward her, looming over her, his blue eyes nearly crystal white with fury. A vein throbbed on his forehead.

She watched in amusement as face went gray, and the full force of her words bored into him: what she had seen in his most intimate moments with Kate, what she wanted from him.

Her smile widened into a death-grin as he approached. When he gripped her with both hands, the cast scraped heavily against her left shoulder. He was strong, even stronger than she'd hoped. She wondered if he was going to strangle her or try to snap her neck. She slipped her hand down her pants. It was going to feel so good. His eyes locked on hers, he didn't even notice.

She thought, _"This is it. He's going to kill me now."_ She laughed. She'd won.

•

Castle stared down at her open, gaping mouth with its slightly receding gums, laughing at him, and he couldn't hide the naked disgust and horror and violation.

"I know everything about you and Kate," Nieman gloated. "Every fucking thing."

He felt, suddenly, a weird sort of lightness. Because she knew everything, and understood _nothing_. He clenched his fists and jaw, and moved in closer.

She crowed, "Go ahead, Ricky-boy. Finish it." He ran his hands up her shoulders, past her neck, cupped her skull between his palms. The cast with the hidden taser dug only slightly into her scalp. Maybe he was going to crush her skull. Her fingers worked inside her lavender scrub pants, which had grown damp, the first time since they put her on the meds. She felt so alive, coming for death as death came for her. So close, now. She grunted, "Do it. Do it to me."

He tilted her head forward gently, kissed her forehead beneath its greasy fringe of graying hair, and said, "Rosie."

Her face scrunched in confusion.

"No matter what you do. No matter what you say, I am not going to hurt you. You've been hurt enough. And you know what? You cannot hurt me. You can grope and claw and dig and bruise, but you cannot touch _me. I choose what I will do and what I will not do. _I thought I'd already made that clear."

Minsky knocked. "Five minutes."

Rick called out, "Thanks!" _Thank God. If there is one._

Nieman's face had gone slack, her eyes glassy, her fingers stilled, held in place by the elastic of her waistband. She was seeing something or someone other than him. He guided her down into the chair, and said, "We're running out of time."

"July fourth," she said. Then she seemed to come back to herself a little. "International fuckwit's day."

"No," he said, "It's handcuff time." Her hands were still in her pants, although she'd essentially forgotten about them when he neglected to snap her neck like a coffee stirrer. He tugged on her forearm, and when her hands emerged, slick and smelling of sex, he used the scarf's loose end to wipe her fingers as he'd wipe a child's snotty nose (and Alexis, having had her share of play dates, had brought quite a few of those home). Then he re-cuffed her, and untied the scarf from her wrist. He balled it up and stuffed it into the half-empty latte cup, cleaned his hands on a paper napkin and tossed that in as well, replacing the lid with a final snap.

He said, "There." He took a deep breath. "Do you want me to read from today's transcript?"

She shook her head, staring at her hands on the table. "I just want my last smoke."

He took out the match and lit it on his left thumbnail. Then he blew it out and tossed it into the ashtray, the cigarette unlit. "I told you. You've been hurt enough. If you want to finish telling your story, fine. I'll write it down. But I'm not gonna breathe that shit anymore, and you're not gonna do it around me."

He went for the door. She spoke coolly, ladylike: "Will you be back tomorrow?"

"Maybe. I'll try. I have things to do."

He closed the door quietly behind him. Minsky – who was not privy to the conversations with Nieman unless they were yelling – looked at him in concern. "How'd it go?"

Dr. Patel had stepped out of the adjoining room. She'd listened in deepening worry, twice talking herself out of sending Minsky in to intervene. "Rick?"

He could hear Kelly Nieman screaming now, a harpie on the winds of a rising storm. "You'll never be as good as him, Michael! You should have killed him when you had the chance!"

Rick said, "I need a bathroom," and gave Minsky the handcuff key.

Dr. Patel said, "Please come and see me after."

He nodded. Minsky led him down the hall.

Once in the bathroom, he threw the cardboard cup into the trash with a shudder of revulsion. The smell of vanilla latte, Kelly Nieman and Cherry Dee-Lite Industrial Air Freshener pushed him right over the edge. He made it to the toilet, threw up, and thanked the Powers that Be for a freshly cleaned bathroom in the finest facility for the criminally insane east of the Pentagon.

He blew his nose, spat, washed his hands and face, rinsed his mouth, and it just wasn't enough. He put a tiny drop of pink industrial soap in his mouth and grimaced at the chemical taste, and swished the vile-tasting foam around on his tongue and teeth, gargling until bubbles burned his throat and sinuses, hurting his inner ears. It was better. Better than to taste that poison of her. It was also unpleasantly reminiscent of having his mouth washed out with soap for swearing at school when he was seven.

He dried his tongue off with a paper towel. The rawness felt better still. He wasn't going to be licking anything for a little while. He could still smell the smoke on his clothes, it hadn't come completely out of his fingers or hair. He considered trying to walk out of the hospital in his underwear, but that probably wouldn't go over too well with the orderlies.

Minsky stood in the hallway awaiting him. To Rick's surprise, the man seemed completely unphased. Minsky shrugged a little. "As meltdowns go, that was about a 2 on a scale of 10," he said. "She even gets to me. You're doin' all right.

Rick nodded silent thanks. Minsky led him back to Dr. Patel's office. He'd visited there a few times since he'd started at Krimby. She stood rather abruptly as he stepped in. "Sit down, please," she said.

He nodded.

"Did you exchange any bodily fluids?"

He nodded, feeling sick. "We kissed." He bit his lip. "She, uh, touched herself. I wiped her hands with a scarf. Is she sick?"

"No, no. She's negative for STDs and AIDS. We test everyone who comes in."

"Good. She, uh..." he paused. "I need this to be over."

"I agree. I think we should make that your last session."

"Oh, no. No. I have her running now."

"Do you?"

"I think so. I don't know."

Dr. Patel poured some spiced chai with milk from a dispenser thermos. He sipped. Despite his sore mouth, it was soothing, the clove and ginger acting like a tonic.

She said, "Dr. Nieman is a total loss. I am not concerned that she could possibly get any worse, but I have only the ghost of hope that she might get any better. You, on the other hand..."

"I just need you to have some faith in me."

"Faith is not the question. Tiffany may be dead or alive, but you are not responsible for that." She knew it was futile before it even passed her lips, but it had to be said.

Castle was almost as on-edge with Patel as he had been with Nieman. "Do you understand that she's playing a game, and I'm the only person she wants to play it with?"

"Yes. But Rick, perhaps you have already lost. You cannot let yourself be another casualty."

"She's wavering. I can see it."

"I think that is wishful thinking, my friend." She sighed. "Please. Go take a break. Be with people you love. Chase some red herrings, as you love to do with your dear Kate."

"I just took a break. What I need is a breakthrough."

She gave him a long, kind, sympathetic look, then picked up her phone and pressed a button. "Mr. Minsky, would you please escort Mr. Castle out now? Thank you."

•

_I've met a lot of people. I'm in my 50s and worked in the service industries, and while I'm a natural introvert, I do fine with crowds and events so long as I have time to withdraw and recharge my emotional batteries. I've met thousands of lovely people, and thousands of ordinary people, and four psychopaths. _

_It's so hard. You can feel them manipulating you, twisting everything said to their advantage. You know they're dangerous, and yet, "No, wait, maybe I'm wrong, maybe they're right..." your mind goes to "I deserved that" and "It was my fault" and "There's something fundamentally wrong with me."_

_Then, after they've injected their poison, if you're lucky, you get away from them. If you're lucky or blessed or both, someone who really loves you notices that you're heartsick and numb, and they say "What happened?" and you tell them what happened, and they say, "Oh, my god, that is SO fucked up."_

_"It is? It's not just me?"_

_"No. It's them. I knew there was something wrong..." _

"_...You just couldn't put your finger on it?" _

_The Nazgul have gone, and there are baby mammals and chocolate and Nathan Fillion and hugs, and it's like a cloud has been blown away from the face of the sun._

_Some of Kelly's dialog and behavior is lifted almost directly from my experience with those four psychopaths: one woman and three men. I hope I never see any of them again, but if I do..._

_I will laugh at them, and walk away. And maybe throw up, later. _


	34. Chapter 34

**Too Soon Chapter 34: Hott off the Presses**

_**"Too Hot To Handle"**_

_Caught in the crossfire, warnin' fight  
Legends make or break game  
Swept up by the rolling waves of the night  
The paper chase for fame_

_I was too, too hot, baby_  
_Too hot to handle_  
_Yeah, I was too, too hot_  
_Too hot to handle  
_

_-UFO_

* * *

**June 24, 11:39 a.m.**  
Castle stalked out of Krimby with Elvis Hormel trotting along at his side. Moving from the air-conditioned asylum to the muggy outdoors was like being smacked in the face with a wet pot-holder. The sky was gray-white with summer storm clouds, and the warm asphalt steamed, already puddled from a squall that had passed through. Hormel was sensitive enough not to ask how it had gone, just based on Castle's black expression. But he did say, "We've got friends waiting on the way out."

"What do you mean, 'friends'?" Castle gritted. He pulled up short outside the building, looking across the open court through the barred gate. Media vans, covered with loud logos and bristling with sat antennae, jammed the causeway and turnaround.

Elvis said, "Aw, shit. There must be a dozen, maybe fifteen stations."

Rick glanced at the sky. "With any luck, they'll all get struck by lightning." Had a deluge come down and washed him away down a storm drain, he'd have been okay with it.

The guard opened the gate, and a single figure stepped through, the lovely and brilliant Katherine Houghton Beckett in an adorable purple trench coat. She hesitated, unsure for a moment whether Castle would want her there; he certainly wasn't smiling. Then she realized he was just barely holding himself together. She started toward him, but he gestured to his right so that she'd shelter from the press view behind the guard house. When she dodged to the side at his signal, he rushed toward her like a ragged moth struggling toward a flame. He practically slammed into her, almost sobbing with relief and gratitude, inhaled her, clung to her, silent and still. She pulled him back against the wall and just let him lean on her. "What in hell happened, Castle?"

His voice was strange, raspy. "If I tell you now..." She felt his head burrow in to her shoulder.

She restrained herself from the desire to rock him like a child. She said, "It's okay. You're okay. I mean... _are_ you okay?"

He straightened to look at her, his face haunted. "No." Then he chuckled, just slightly, and brushed her nose with his but didn't kiss her. "Maybe."

Hormel wandered off awkwardly to chat with the guard, who was having quite a day and, incidentally, was also losing at Crazy Crush.

Kate held Rick close, apologizing for coming when he'd asked her to stay away. "I'm sorry. I should have called."

"You really shouldn't be here," he agreed, but it was a weak statement.

"I just saw you on TV, that reporter..."

"Just doing her job."

"We'll send her an otoscope and a box of tissues by way of apology." Kate chuckled and ran her hand through his buzz cut. "It's growing back a little more every day, you know. I'm detecting the possibility of silkiness."

"At least something's making progress," he sighed, then glanced over at the gate. Elvis was talking to the guard, who was shrugging and shaking his head. Kate put an arm around Castle's waist and kissed his cheek. "I called in reinforcements," she smiled.

"Reinforcements? What, the national guard? I hope they brought cattle prods," he grumbled.

She chuckled. "Better. They brought body doubles."

Castle frowned at her, baffled. Holding hands, they watched as two black cars pulled up in the emergency lane: a plain Taurus and an FBI fleet SUV with a gumball on top. Jordan Shaw stepped out, smiling beatifically at the crowd of reporters and camera operators. A tall, silent, burly agent set up a little folding portable plinth for her to stand on, head and shoulders above the crowd. He handed her up, and she beckoned them all around her. "Hi. How's everyone doing today? Anyone need more time to link up?"

The newscasters started chattering into their microphones: "I'm Vicky Smalls." "I'm Delbert Washington." "I'm Aziz Asmarin with Al Jeerra"...

"I'm Amy Worthington with... uh..." she glanced over at Rick Castle, who almost literally had a black cloud hanging over his buzz cut. "Whiny. WHNY. New York. I, uh." She sniffled nervously. "Breaking news."

Jordan Shaw smiled into the cameras while her burly associate walked to the gate, beckoning Castle, Beckett, and Hormel through. He motioned them to stand at Jordan's right. Castle assumed his polite press smile. Beckett forced herself to relax. She was getting to be an old hand, but it would never be really comfortable.

Shaw was addressing the press. "Thank you all for coming. Technically this isn't news, but I'm sure you'll want to know, since it involves those all-important elements of sex and scandal. After recent allegations that the FBI leaked private sex tapes, I'm here to dispel that juicy little rumor with some dull yet pertinent facts." She glanced over at the Taurus. Its doors opened, and out stepped... Richard Castle and Kate Beckett?

Castle nudged Beckett. "That's us." Kate nodded.

Confused voices arose in a tsunami of questions. Shaw made a grand gesture. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, may I introduce you to Miss Natalie Rhodes and Mr. Nat Williams."

Williams waved cheerily at the crowd, and Rhodes blew kisses, hanging on his arm. It was distinctly possible, judging by their shared lip color, that they had been making out a little in the car. They walked over and stood at Jordan's left. Castle stepped across in front of Jordan and shook hands with Williams:

"Nat! Good to see you again. You look like hell."

Nat gave that trademark, just slightly-less-lopsided grin, responding genially: "So do you, Rick." The resemblance really was remarkable, Williams even having buzz-cut his enviably perfect locks to match Castle's own. Williams may have been in just-slightly-better shape... his pants were so tight that if you stuffed a quarter into the pocket, you'd be able to make out E Pluribus Unum on the backside.

Kate then shook with Williams and gave Natalie an air kiss on the cheek, while Rick just stood there, looking a bit mystified. Natalie waved at Rick, a little shyly, and he waved back with an expression that could only be interpreted as "Uh, all-righty, then."

Castle came back to Kate and he nudged her, whispering under a saccharine smile, "I thought we got a restraining order on her?"

"Wait till you hear this," she murmured. "Just act casual." Her left arm looped through his right. She glanced down at his new cast. "Hey," she whispered. "That's a real improvement."

Jordan was still talking. "It turns out that those sex recordings are not actually Mr. and Mrs. Beckett-Castle in their private domicile as shot by a deranged serial killer, but rather a series of accomplished thespian performances by Ms. Rhodes and Mr. Williams."

Castle nearly collapsed in relief. The press went nuts. "Ms Rhodes, what about your nervous breakdown during your filming of the Nikki Heat movie?"

Williams put a buff and gorgeous arm protectively around Rhodes' slender shoulders. "That was simply method acting whose value wasn't recognized."

Rhodes said, "I had a problem with the script because it just didn't adhere to the spirit of Nikki Heat. The producer backed out, the completion bond fell apart, there was a lawsuit..." she shrugged.

Williams added, "and then the unused footage got sold off for a porn parody called Nookie Hott." Rhodes smiled up at Williams, who preened a little and squeezed her arm. She rolled her eyes and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. Williams added "I got the call that they were looking for someone to play the, uh..." he looked over at Rick a little apprehensively "Dick Towers part."

Rick's face went red. He grinned sheepishly at the crowd. "And if you think I had anything to do with producing _that_ feature, you, uh, have another thing coming."

Kate rolled her eyes and jabbed him lightly with her elbow in a perfect imitation of Natalie imitating her. Everyone laughed except Amy Worthington, who had blown her nose five times since Castle chastised her, and still wasn't quite convinced she didn't have a lingering booger. She did, but it was lodged at the back of her cerebellum, and all the forceful blowing in the world wouldn't dislodge it. She said, "Mr. Castle. Why choose Krimby Psychiatric to host a press conference?"

Agent Shaw cocked her head. "I'd like to answer that. Mr. Castle did not choose this location. _You_ did, Amy, by backing him into a corner. He is here at Krimby on official business as a consultant, and that business is classified. But for the press to impugn his reputation, or his wife's, seemed unreasonable, especially if that smear campaign could also be blamed on the FBI's leaking of evidence in a murder case. So after seeing your … interview with him this morning, we thought we'd like to set you straight about the supposedly leaked recordings."

Amy pouted skeptically. "So none of the footage posted to YouBoob is actually of Richard Castle or Katherine Beckett."

Shaw shook her head. "Sorry, folks. It's your lucky day, because apparently sex is a lot more interesting to watch when it's done by actors instead of real people."

Williams and Rhodes pouted at her, and Rhodes said, "Oh, we're _real_."

Williams puffed a little. "We're _better_ than real." He patted Natalie's bottom. She squeezed his in return, and giggled.

Shaw said drily, "OMG. Nat and Natalie. Isn't that perfect?" She put a slim hand over her heart and smiled around at the vans. Those in legitimate news functions looked deflated, did a wrap and started packing up their gear. Those in gossip and entertainment flocked around Williams and Rhodes like vultures, leaving Rick and Kate unmolested as Strong Silent ushered them to the SUV.

Castle rasped, "I can't even."

Rhodes and Williams stayed behind for photo and autograph was the single best move of their careers. A year later Williams had a vast Tweeter following, a semi-regular sitcom part as the rough-and-tumble ex-husband of a pizza chain owner, and a lucrative side business in men's hair products sold through Home Spending Channel. Rhodes – who had done everything in her power to thwart the serial killer who hired her to impersonate Kate Beckett – ended up getting not only a medal, but also a contract in a series called Jungle Vet Woman, which filmed in zoos and natural locations conveniently remote from New York, such as New Jersey. She quit the series after being mauled by an enraged pangolin (and if you have ever met a pangolin, you know just how hard they are to piss off). Williams, who had grown fond of her, nursed her back to health, and at last report, they were living blissfully in Laurel Canyon, doing tantric sex videos and writing Nikki Heat fan fiction out of sheer love for the characters. Bless their hearts.

•

**June 24, 12:03 p.m.**

Castle gave Hormel some brief instructions, and he took off in the waiting town car. Rick and Kate got into the SUV with the FBI agents, and in the back seat, Rick sighed. Kate nibbled on some crackers and handed him her water bottle. She said quietly, "You smell like clove cigarettes. Latent Goth period?"

"No. I'd kill for a shower, though," he murmured. "Hey, Jordan, thank you."

"No problem. Granola bar?" She handed a couple back to Kate, but Rick's mouth hurt, so he waved it off. Kate nibbled hers and slipped the spare into her purse for later.

"Sorry about jumping you without a briefing. Damage control."

"So, who's in the recordings? Us or them?"

"Oh, it's you. Some shit-for-brains in our tech department clicked "ok" at the dance studio and sent a bunch of crap out to 3XK's porn subscribers. But we've at least sewn the seeds of doubt, and most of the the shots are so badly lit that even if you slowed them down, you wouldn't be able to see much. You and your candles."

"Where do Williams and Rhodes fit in?"

"We'll have them do some more intermittent footage and ADR. Throw them off. Take down the originals when we find them, based on copyright violations."

"So nobody's sure it's us?" Rick felt sick, thinking of Alexis having to deal with her friends. Then sicker, thinking of himself having to deal with Kate's dad. "Wait, does this mean the FBI's in the business of making porn?"

Shaw snorted. "Of course. Not. That's the CIA. But we work together sometimes."

Kate said, "Omigod. I'm so glad my dad doesn't have a TV or computer at the cabin. I need to call him."

Shaw said, "I'd sure appreciate that, Kate, because no doubt he'd get the protective urge to flex his lawyerly muscles and sue our sorry asses. We screwed up, big-time."

The Strong, Silent Agent glanced over at her in warning. She grinned and smacked his arm lightly. "Relax, Baldwin."

Rick said, "You really shouldn't admit that, should you? That the FBI screwed up?"

Shaw (who had left the driving to Strong Silent Type) turned slowly to look at Rick. "Oh, come on. You're a fiscally-responsible man. Do you really want to waste public funds on a lawsuit when we're all out to catch the same bad guys, and we're doing our best to cover your adorable butt?"

Rick got a tad flustered. "Uh, actually, no. Just, uh, curious."

She twitched her cute little nose at him. "Good. Stay curious. We're still looking for Tiffany. Get anything out of the White Witch of Long Island today?"

Rick sighed. Shaw glanced at his expression in the rear view mirror and said, "Let it go, buddy."

"People keep saying that." His hands fisted, then relaxed. Kate was torn between giving him room and touching him to show support. She gazed at him, and he gave a tight-lipped microshake of his head. Her nod was just as tiny, conveying a silent message: _"Tell me when you're ready." _

He was swamped with it again, his love for her, his gratitude. He took her hand, but turned away out the window. They were heading southwest through Manhattan, intermittent fat raindrops spattering the driver's side and back windows.

Shaw said, "Well, maybe tomorrow. With any luck, she's still alive." But she looked disappointed.

Rick said, "How are Kayla and Elise?"

Shaw said, "Kayla's decided to create a graphic novel based on her experiences. We got her a pile of art supplies and she's burnin' through them... she won't be able to publish till after Grossmann's trial, but she's kicking ass. Brave girl."

Kate said, "And Elise?"

Shaw's face was sober. "She'll live. Her family's with her around the clock." She said nothing more, and they didn't press for information she couldn't give. "So, where to, kids?"

They spoke simultaneously. "Three Crowns."

Under the fat spattering drops of the next rain band, the SUV pulled up to the old hotel's overhang. Rick clambered somewhat awkwardly out of the car, Kate actually helping him. The agent smiled at them. "One way or another, the worst of this is almost over," she said.

Rick swallowed miserably, his mouth still raw. "Patel won't let me back in."

Shaw nodded, glancing at Kate. "That was only a matter of time. I've seen it before. I'll just have to try a different approach."

Rick said, "She's really sick. But there's a part of her that wants to help us. If I could just..."

"It's all right, Castle. Take a break. It's 1 p.m, and if you worked for me, I'd make you take the weekend off."

Castle frowned, puzzled. "But it's only Tuesday."

Beckett, Jordan, and Strong Silent Type spoke as one. "That's the point."

•

**12:30 p.m.**  
After a slog through traffic in a thunderous downpour, they went up to their suite – which had been put back in order – to find Alexis, Martha, and Jackson eating lunch. Or at least Alexis and Jackson were... Martha was put the "finishing touches" on a blender smoothie - "hmm. A touch more protein powder..." whirrrrrr "... another handful of blueberries..." rzzz-rzzz-rzzz "Alexis, do you think this needs more spirulina?"

Kate took one look at it and ran for the bathroom, although to be fair, she'd been heading in that exact direction anyway. "I'm, uh, I'm okay." Slam.

The smoothie was a sort of greenish gray sludge. As Rick peered at it, the smoothie burped slightly then settled into the blender like an indolent bog monster. Martha poured herself another sip. "Fresh ginger!" she announced, as she would have announced the need for more ammunition or faster horses. She peeled, grated, and blended (blent should be a word, shouldn't it?) a chunk of ginger root the size of her thumb. The blender was nearly up to its top line and threatening to spill over. "I don't know," Martha said. "It needs something."

"It needs to be drunk," Rick said. "In fact, so do I, but since that's not happening..." He grabbed the blender, poured himself a pint and started drinking it down. "Errrghhghg," he winced, but chugged the whole thing. Martha tried to stop him. "Richard, that's a detox..."

"Detox sounds about right," he gasped, and finished it off. "Exactly what I need."

"Except..."

"Except what? Actually that was pretty good."

"Except that it was supposed to be a skin exfoliant. You know. Sloughing."

Rick's eyes went wide. "What? You let me slough my mouth out?" He picked a butter knife out of a drawer and stuck his tongue out, looking at the reflection in its tiny mirror.

Alexis and Jackson snickered.

Martha said, "Just kidding. But it is supposed to balance the alkaline and clear the liver and kidneys. And, uh, other parts."

"Parts." Rick grimaced. "How much of this should I have drunk?"

"Oh, about two ounces at a time, spread out over the course of 18 hours."

"Oh, crap."

Martha waggled her eyebrows. "You said it, not me, Kiddo."

Rick sighed. "I'm gonna take a shower." He passed along through the bedroom, where Kate was lying down 'for just a moment' (passed out fully clothed atop the bedspread with her feet hanging off the edge, snoring like a basenji with a cold). He stripped off and showered the stench of smoke and horror from his skin. He scrubbed his nails, rinsed his mouth again, and when he was through washing, toweled up and brushed his teeth. He had to do it gently, his mouth still tender and burning, with a blister on the roof that reminded him of a pizza burn. Then he collected his clothes into a hotel laundry bag and handed them out the door to his mother.

She knew the drill, having dealt with it almost daily since Rick started visiting 3XK's accomplice. "Mother, would you mind..."

"I know, I know... send them all to the cleaners."

"Thanks." He could see the worry in her face and tapped his nostrils gently. "It's the nose."

Martha said, "No doubt that's from your father's side of the family."

"Bloodhounds," Jackson assented, closing his laptop as he arose from his perch on the island stool. "We're bloodhounds."

"Thanks for that, Dad. Makes crime scenes so pleasant."

Jackson took the bag of laundry from Martha, then bent to hug her. "Yes, but when you get to smell the roses..."

"True." Rick dodged back into his room before Jackson could nuzzle Martha's hair. He was still feeling a bit squeamish, although Alexis seemed used to it.

Rick lay down on the bed next to the sleeping Kate. She shifted and hummed a little. He was hit with nerves about maybe waking her, startling her, making her feel invaded. He was still feeling bad about Ryan and Espo seeing her naked. He got back up, dressed casually, and sat at the ornate little desk where his laptop had waited untouched for days. He created a new spreadsheet.

The first thing he typed was "_Bloodhound_". He inserted some rows above.

_**OPERATION COMFORT***  
_

_Crew:_

_Note to self: This could get one or all of us killed or jailed. Prep for WCS. _

_Bloodhound+ handler Betsy &amp; Mo?_

_Pilot Matt? Hunt?_

_Driver Ryan? Hunt?_

_Medic Lanie?_

_Arms Me, Espo, Hunt, Ryan, Matt, Mo_

_Obfuscation Shaw? _

_Backup Beckett? _

_Worst Case Scenario Wong?_

_Mechanic Hunt?_

_Locks Hunt_

_(*Not a particularly subtle reference to Louis Comfort Tiffany, but hey, who's gonna read this?)_

_**Phases:**_

_Organization  
• time  
• money  
• personnel  
• physical resources  
• ask for permission or forgiveness? _

_Travel – direct flight? Concord? Anonymous separate planes?_

_Search – (and then a miracle occurs)_

_Recover – how to get Tiff home under the radar_

_Clean Up – Inevitable and Unpredicted Mess_

Rick sighed and sat back, editing and re-arranging different notes into the spreadsheet, cursing silently as the high-tech cast hampered his typing and mouse control. Deeply absorbed, he didn't notice Kate awaken and stretch. She sat up, smiled to see him writing, then stepped over to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

To his credit, he didn't accidentally flatten her or ram his skull into her jaw. He yelped, though, and slammed the laptop shut. She stepped back at his reaction. "Sorry."

He put his face in his hands. "Yeah. Me too."

"May I come in for a landing again?" she said gently. From behind his fingertips, he nodded, and she leaned over him, this time passing her right arm under his, then locking her hands across his chest. "I should've warned you."

"It's okay." He sighed, his hands over hers, squeezed then patted them. Then he said, "No secrets, right?"

"Right." She pressed her chin hard into his shoulder muscles, digging at a knot.

He said, "Keep doing that and I'll give you all my worldly possessions."

"Everything I want is right here." She gave him a little hug. "Speaking of which, don't we need to get officially married?"

"Right!" he added, and moved it to the top of the list, typing: "'Officially_ Get Married._'"

Then at the bottom of the list: "_'Honeymoon.'_"

Kate said, "You know, if you move 'honeymoon' to the top, right after 'forgiveness' and before 'travel', that gives us an excuse to get out of town without raising much of a flag."

Rick cleared his throat. "Um, about the 'us' part..." He clicked "save" and closed the laptop again.

She stiffened. "You don't get to do this without me, Castle."

The armless wood-frame chair was not on wheels. He swung it around and pulled her into his lap, his head laid tight against her sternum. Her heart rate was elevated, and he tried to be calm for both of them, but he struggled just to breathe normally. He was scared for himself and for everyone else involved, but he was desperately sure that what he really wanted, above all, was for her to be safe.

"Kate," he whispered. He put his hand on her belly. "Don't make me play the baby card again. Besides, Gates needs you here."

"Damn it," she groaned, and leaned her chin atop his bristly head. "This is NOT fair."

"That's okay," he said. "Life can be fair another time, another way." He slid his left hand up her right side and cupped her breast. "At least from where I'm sitting, the view is great."

She huffed. "You are such a bad man."

He snatched his hand away, dropped it to his lap. She felt him shudder beneath her, pulled back, and raised his chin with her hand. "You know I was teasing, Castle?" His eyes were closed tight, his face pale, and he looked like he was about to implode. She felt a hovering blackness, like after a flash goes off and everything seems dark no matter how bright the lights are around you.

"Rick. Rick, sweetie. What is it?"

"I kissed her," he rasped. His breath hissed in his nostrils. He felt her torso contract, as if she'd been punched, but she kept her hands gentle.

"Why?" Her voice was calm.

He reminded himself, "No secrets." He forced himself to look at her, expecting anger, disgust, disappointment. "I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "I tried to convince her..."

Her eyes were wide. "Hey, hey." She put her hands on his jaws, careful of the bruising. "Rick. It's all right. I know. It's all right."

"You don't know. I wouldn't do anything to convince her she has me, but I came too close."

"I've worked undercover. I've worked vice. We fight bullets with bullets, fire with fire, and sometimes we fight lies with lies. Some of those lies... It's not just our voices." She tilted her head, eyes fixed on his. "You remember our first kiss."

"Yeah." His tears were spilling now, and she let them come unchecked, washing him clean.

She said, "We were supposed to be lying that night. We were undercover."

He nodded. She went on: "I had never, ever, _ever_! Felt anything more true than that first kiss. I went back for another, you remember?"

He nodded again. "How could I forget?"

"You couldn't. You didn't. Neither did I. It was..." she dipped her chin, smiled at him. Bit her lip because she knew it drove him to distraction, and he needed that distraction desperately. "It was the truest, deepest, hottest, most beautiful moment of my life thus far, in the dark on a trashy street with a monster on our tail."

She leaned in close, her lips almost touching his, imparting understanding into his mouth as a goddess would into an oracle. "That was the truest kiss I had ever experienced in my entire life. It scared me, and I ran, but you stayed. You waited until I came back to you. And I have come back for a thousand more, and I will keep coming back, and each one will be true. I _know_ you, Castle. I know _you_."

He kissed her then, heedless of pain, and she tasted blood on his tongue, but let him stay in the safety of her, the clean, pure, true, Kate-ness of her, as long as he needed.

She added, "And also after you kissed me senseless, you beat the crap out of Hal Lockwood."

"Well, yeah, but..."

"You're brave, Rick. I know you'd kill for me. I know you'd die for me. But please don't. Please live for me, live with me." Her voice shook. "You've played your part well. She thinks she has you. She thinks you've killed for her. You're playing her, Castle, and you're winning, but it's no win if she turns the tables. Don't let her live in your head."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "Do you suppose you could ream my brain out through a hole in my nose, like the Egyptian embalmers?"

"I don't think I have a jar big enough to hold it," she chuckled. "Maybe they have one down in the kitchen. We could pickle your cerebellum for a couple days then try stuffing it back in, see if it still works."

He sniffled, the tears calmed. "Might get stolen by zombies. Or confused with cauliflower."

"Well, I guess we're back to Square One. Brain stays in head." She added, "Open your mouth."

He obliged and she looked inside, wincing in sympathy. "Tell me you didn't use Lysol or something."

"No, just soap." His lip was cracked, seeping a little blood. "But I did scrub."

"Good thing." She gave him a wry smile. "Peroxide full strength is the mouthwash of choice, for future reference. Come take a shower with me?"

He'd just taken one. He didn't have to think twice. "Sure!"

They undressed and she padded into the bathroom to pee before she got in the shower. He undressed while she finished up. The bathroom was quite a bit smaller than that at the loft. While Rick adjusted the shower flow, with his back to her, she smacked him, HARD, on the butt with her open hand.

He yelped again. "Hey! What was that for!"

"Did you deserve that?"

He had to think about it. _"No!"_

"So quit beating yourself up, because that's the last time I'm gonna do it for you," she said. He looked in the mirror at his absolutely perfect ass, which now had a mottled pink handprint on it. "Ow," he murmured.

She said, "I've waited to do that for almost seven years."

He said ruefully, "Well, I did invite you to." He rubbed the sore spot a little. It really wasn't that bad, had startled him more than actually hurting.

She nodded. "Timing is everything." She leaned over and placed her hands on his hips. "Oh, I've raised a welt. Kiss it better?"

"That sounds like a good start," he smiled.


	35. Chapter 35

**Too Soon Chapter 35 – Stir Crazy**

_All of me_  
_Why not take all of me_  
_Can't you see_  
_I'm no good without you_

_Take my lips_  
_I want to lose them_  
_Take my arms_  
_I'll never use them_

_Your goodbye_  
_Left me with eyes that cry_  
_How can I go on dear without you_

_You took the best_  
_So why not take the rest_  
_Baby, take all of me - Lester Young_

* * *

**June 25 – 2 p.m. - Three Crowns Hotel**

The five of them – Rick, Kate, Martha, Alexis, and Jackson – all had different feelings about being cooped up together at the hotel under police protection. They all wanted to go back to the loft, but they were all adults and didn't complain much. Better to be where things were more public, with hotel security now more on the alert than they had been before Martha and Alexis were abducted. After the redheads' scrape a few days back, they'd all made a mutual pact to scream bloody murder if anyone else messed with them.

Whether it was the stress, the injuries, or Martha's cocktail, Rick had been pretty much useless since drinking the smoothie down. As its effects kicked in he grew more and more uncomfortable. He took to his bed and mostly stayed there, with his poor body going off like Old Faithful every few hours or so. When he couldn't sleep, he wrote, he watched TV, he sat around brooding, he spent a lot of time in the bathroom, and in general, he was nearly impossible to be around.

**2:30 p.m. - Twelfth Precinct**  
Beckett took refuge in work, kissing him gently goodbye after she ate lunch. Murders still happen, even when the life of a detective seems to be on hold. She buried herself in paperwork, missing caffeine desperately and her usual buoyant, helpful Castle as well, although he was only a phone call away. It was better to let herself miss him a little than to find herself going absolutely nuts while he recovered from Martha's detox smoothie overload. Likely, because she'd gotten behind, she'd end up working until 9, coming back, eating a quick dinner, and falling into bed like a stone.

**2:30 p.m. - Three Crowns Hotel**  
Martha, who was accustomed to the limelight, had a hard time settling for an audience of just three or four prisoners. With Jackson also needing to catch up on his mysterious work responsibilities, she went downstairs to hang around in the hotel's Crown Royale Tea Room, twiddling on the piano and humming rather too loudly, hoping someone would pretend not to notice who she was. She could be very magnanimous with the shy and the awkward.

Jackson spent much of his time on his laptop; Alexis thought he might be playing video games. At one point he clicked "Send" and she heard an un-muted explosion from the little speaker. She said, "Wow, that was realistic."

He nodded grimly. "Yeah." Then he looked at her speculatively under his thick brows, and added, "If you'll just excuse me, I'm, uh..." he pointed at his keyboard. "I have a situation here."

Alexis nodded meekly.

She said, "Grandpa, I'm just going to get out of the room for a breather. Maybe hit the gym."

Jackson barely nodded, engrossed in something that looked rather like surveillance over a swath of ice, or possibly sand, studded with outcrops of rock. Alexis realized she had no idea of the scale; whether he was looking at the world from an ant's eye, an eagle's, or a satellite's. She wondered what he was looking for, and realized she really wasn't supposed to know, and she hoped to God he actually was one of the good guys.

She took the stairs down to the tea room to find her grandmother just charging out. "Oh, Alexis, there you are. I was just going back up to our rooms... your grandfather..." She fluttered her hands. "You know. Booty call."

"Ugh, Grams...!"

"Have you heard this young man playing?" She gestured over to the tea room's piano, where the musician was ensconced in a blue bow tie and a hotel-issued dinner jacket. Martha's voice sank to a stage whisper. "He really is adorable!"

He was also a much better piano player than Martha, and he'd been hired by the hotel to do afternoon tea, Wednesday through Sunday from 2 to 5. Prime Time for the Ladies who Lunch.

Alexis chose a little corner table sheltered by potted areca palms, somewhat behind and to the right of the pianist. She ordered the Mini Tea Special with Small Pot, Cucumber Sandwiche Triangle, Petite Scone and Creme Fraiche. When the waiter left for her order, she tried to read her book (Cold Comfort Farm) but, distracted, set it down and sat scowling at her phone. She'd been texting back and forth, trying to get together with Paige while she was still in town before heading off on vacation. Alexis hadn't seen many of her friends since before Rick's crash. While he was in the hospital, she'd cancelled a camping trip and then, as it became evident that a team of serial killers was after her family, her friends had been understandably distant. Between the stress of the wedding, her dad's kidnapping and injuries, and her own kidnapping ordeal with the fake Captain Gates... (my God, Captain Gates had actually shot someone right in front of her own children!) … the one thing she really needed was facetime with friends, and it just wasn't happening. She picked up her book again with a sigh. As a naturally tidy person with too many crazy relatives, Alexis felt a lot of affinity for the fictional Miss Flora Post.

Alexis' summer was really sucking hard. She'd planned to spend the summer at a couple of different internships, exploring her options. She really enjoyed working for NYPD, but she also had thoughts about going into medicine or even neuropsychiatry... because it would be even more satisfying to prevent murders than solve them, and she felt that most violent crime might be a result of haywire brain chemistry. And she'd hoped to attend a week-long music institute. Plus friends. Boys (men?). Fun. None of that had materialized; instead she spent time with people averaging twice her age (although, admittedly her dad was something of a man-child, he was a lot less fun of late). So she was bored out of her mind. And lonely. And worried. Her whole life seemed to be on indefinite hold.

The musician was phenomenal. Really, he was more of a one-man band. Stepping away from the piano, he picked up a concertina, accompanying himself as he sang "_La Vie en Rose"_ in impeccable French. His voice was a tenor similar to Lyle Lovett's, only a bit more gravelly. Then _"As Time Goes By."_ The Ladies who Lunch all applauded politely, and he smiled and bowed, put away the concertina, and picked up his violin. It took a moment for Alexis to recognize the haunting melody.

"Omigod," Alexis' head snapped up. He was playing Haley Blue's _"Threshold."_ He had his back to her as she sat in the corner by a potted palm, probably hadn't even noticed she was there, so he couldn't be playing it for her. He didn't walk around, just played in one spot, perched on a tall stool next to the piano.

For some reason, tears came to the girl's eyes. Was it the song, or the situation? She didn't know, and there was no tissue in her purse, and all they had were goddamn cloth napkins and she just would NOT blow her nose on one. She found herself sobbing, and turned toward the potted palm, hoping nobody would notice. The waiter, who was inordinately handsome, barely smirked at her as he dropped off her Earl Gray tea and cucumber sandwich. She pressed the bridge of her nose, trying to calm herself. The song ended to polite applause, and she kept herself turned away into the corner, hiccuping slightly, then took a sip of tea and sighed, wiping her eyes on the short sleeve of her polo shirt.

A moment later, a young man's voice said, "Excuse me."

She turned, but not all the way, because her nose was absolutely gushing; she kept her hand over the lower part of her face. Her mind went blank. This man was... Martha had been right: he was adorable. About 25, big brown eyes; short, dark hair; one discreet earring, all nicely done up in a neat package with the borrowed hotel suit and some nicely polished Doc Martens.

When she said nothing, he proffered a little plastic packet of tissues and said with a little shrug, "If the hotel finds out I make people cry, they'll fire me."

She took a tissue and chuckled, not because he was that funny, but because he was trying to cheer her up. "That was a 3-Kleenex-song."

He nodded. "You know it?"

"Oh, yeah. Haley Blue." She decided not to bring up Haley's murder, or what she knew about the song. "Never would have thought to play that on the violin." She waggled her fingers, unconsciously working out the the cord progression mid-air.

He raised an eyebrow – not in skepticism, but interest. "You play?"

She nodded regretfully. "I'm a little out of practice, though." Her violin was still at the loft.

"It's back home?"

Her eyes widened. How did he … oh. _"We're in a hotel, dummy." _"Yeah. I should've thought to bring it along. I miss it."

"I don't think I could go a day without playing. I'd turn into a troll or something." He took out a business card and set it on the table next to the packet of tissues, then put his violin to his shoulder and started playing softly, slowly, with a sly twinkle. "_Call Me Maybe." _He threw some jazz in, taking the simple melody and hooking it in with something loose, breezy, and spontaneous. Alexis picked up his card and he caught her smiling approval as she read it:

**DAVID C. HORWITZ**

**Musician***

Classical • Jazz • Pop • Cabaret • Burlesque  
Composition for stage, screen, and gaming

piano, accordion, synthesizer, strings, found instruments

MusicMan • 212-555-4377 • musicman_337

_*Inventor, Rocket Scientist, Brain Surgeon, Sound Technician_

Her phone buzzed with a message from Lanie: _"Hey Alexis. We're swamped here. Have time to help with cataloging evidence?"_

She texted back. _"Sure. Be there by 4:30."_

Then she glanced over at the musician and snapped his pic. It took only a moment to post it on Tweeter: " musicman_337 Made me cry then made me smile. That's talent."

She popped a $5 into his tip jar as she left the room. He responded with a subtle nod and smile.

* * *

When Alexis got back to the hotel suite, Martha and Jackson were... occupied in Martha's room, so she grabbed her rain trench and went into her father's adjoining suite. Rick was sitting on the sofa, in blackout-curtained shadows, wearing a Real Genius tee and pajama pants, watching a crappy vampire movie from 2000. (The priest didn't make it. They rarely do.)

He jumped a little when she came in.

"Hey, Dad. I'm going downtown to help Lanie for a little while. How are you feeling?"

"Like I ate a giant squid and it's bent on revenge." When he turned to her, his expression was so mournful she felt a real pang of worry, and sitting next to him on the sofa, gave him a hug. He hesitated a moment, then wrapped his arms around her, and his belly rumbled.

She giggled. "You're right. Your stomach sounds like something out of a Lovecraft novel."

"The creeping horror..." He patted his belly, as if pregnant with the spawn of Satan. "Promise you won't let it take over New York City."

"Of course not, Dad... but I left my copy of the Necronomicon back in the other suite."

He put his hands on her shoulders, searching her face. She stared up at him, puzzled. "What?"

The corner of his mouth trembled. "All I want is to have my family safe," he said.

"I know, Dad."

His brow furrowed, looking at her in the blue light of the paused TV screen. "You've been crying."

"I kind of needed to. It's been a rough haul. I'm okay."

"Sweetheart, I just... it's not over. It might get harder. And I need to ask you to really watch your back. There are so many good, trustworthy people in this world..."

Alexis smiled. "And then there's the 1 percent who really want to screw it up."

Sometimes when he was tired, he slurred his s just a little. It came out "Yesh. And we have them outnumbered."

She chuckled. "Yeah, but outgunned?

"They will tashte the wrath of my blade," he intoned, blustery as Falstaff.

"I'm sure they will quail with unmitigated terror. Speaking of unmitigated terror, if I started dating someone at this point, would you completely freak out?"

That straightened him up. "Why yes, of course."

"Well, good, at least something's normal around here." She pulled out the can of mace she carried in her purse. "Don't worry about me."

Alexis took her leave and went downstairs to the town car her dad had called for her. Hearing Lester Young's jazzy old "All of Me" playing from the tea room, she was tempted to peek in, but restrained herself. All the same, once in the car, she spent the commute looking Horowitz up on Myface and his blog, "The Soul of Witz". He was apparently single, he was slightly goofy, and he had a "real" job, as a sound technician for a public radio station. And from the vibe he'd given Alexis, he was most likely straight. All good.

•

**New York City Morgue, 4:30 p.m.**  
Alexis stuck her head in to Lanie's work room at the morgue. "I'll just get my gear on," she smiled, and Lanie went back to a pile of desiccated bone, twisted together with blackened, fibery jerky. She spoke wearily into the recorder. "Remains are the upper torso of a woman, possibly early thirties, some degradation of spinal disks and early osteoporosis. Right hand is missing, cut off four inches below elbow with a sharp blade, possibly an axe. Looks like it took two blows." She stopped and made a note to herself: _"Singleton?"_

She sat back, looking at the matrix of body parts, methods, disposal sites, possible connections, names, dates, and let out more a huff than a sigh. Alexis entered and said, "That good, huh?"

"Feels like I've spent the entire goddamn summer in this fucking basement," Lanie grumbled.

Alexis wasn't surprised. She knew that the 3XK case had stirred up a hornet's nest: a network of coordinated serial killers, and their stashes of bodies, with more being unearthed every day as the investigations continued and they turned on each other, one by one, trying to bargain for lighter sentencing. She said, "What are the stats?"

"Well," Lanie said, "We've had fourteen killers revealed as part of this network, and their amassed kills so far add up to 223... although some are incomplete parts that may have been dumped in multiple locations, and we're having to match up the DNA. So..." she shrugged. "I dunno. We're piecing these poor folks together like puzzles."

Alexis grimaced at the pathetic remains before her. "Poor thing."

"Yeah," Lanie said. "She bled out through her arm before she was beheaded."

"No, I mean you."

Lanie snorted. "Ha. I'm still alive and in one piece." But her mood was dark. "Ok, if you can get this all entered into the relational database and then run a search for 'decomposed granite river sand' that would be really helpful."

•

**An Attic Bedroom, Somewhere in Ireland, 9:30 p.m.**

"You are such a little brat!" Tiffany Ross sighed. It was late. Dark. And like her, the cat was stir-crazy. Dressed in his natty little tuxedo suit, Fabio ran from her ensuite bathroom to her bedroom and back again... jumped into the dry bathtub, running like a hamster with his little claws scraping on the curved walls. Tiffany actually giggled at that. "Crazy cat."

Then with a frustrated yowl, he leaped back out of the tub and ran hell-bent across the room, climbed up the curtains, and jumped atop the bookcase to yowl again in frustration. There was a stack of mystery books atop the case, and the cat shoved against them. They tumbled down onto the carpeted floor in a disorganized flurry of thuds. "Bad kitty. Come on. Down you come." But the cat just mewed again. Tiffany bent to pick up the books, many of them sprawled open, their pages creased.

Someone had left a paper clip on page 143 of "Love's Desert Song", marking the place where Miss Lillie-Anne gets hot and heavy with Deke, the lovelorn cowboy. Tiffany made a mental note to herself to read this one. The pages were slightly stuck together.

A paper clip!

"You are such a good kitty!" Tiffany murmured. She rummaged through the bookshelves, trying to remember which... Ok. It was a Richard Castle mystery... was it Flowers for Your Grave? No. Bullets and Bracelets. He'd described it very convincingly: how to pick a lock with a paper clip. Tiffany paused, listening. The only sound was Fabio's tongue, licking himself more out of boredom than need for grooming – she brushed him three times a day (also out of boredom), and since he was never allowed out, he had no fleas.

The house, otherwise, was silent. She found a DVD – Turner and Hootch – and put it on for a little background noise. She paged through the book, trying to remember... aha! Page 77: Agnes is locked in a closet by Mme Duchesne, and uses a hairpin to pick the lock. Tiffany rolled her eyes. "What kind of name is Agnes? SO unsexy." Tiffany hunkered down and stared at the doorknob, then cursed. She had gained almost thirty pounds since they'd brought her to the safe house – if it really was a safe house - and she had been a little zaftig in the first place; now the little roll around her belly made her huff uncomfortably.

"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Here goes nothin'."

She read the description.

"_'Agnes hadn't done it before. But she'd seen it in movies, read about it enough times... this wasn't a high tech lock. How hard could it be? Three hours later, she was sitting on the floor, ready to cry. 'One more time,'" she sighed._"

Tiffany murmured, "Maybe I shouldn't have read that part." She kept reading: _"Then Agnes – who was a bright girl but not particularly observant – remembered the fatal flaw in her plan: she needed two clips." _

"Oh, shit," Tiffany sighed. "Well, Mr. Castle, you saved me a couple hours." She sat back, looking around the room. She picked up "Love's Desert Song" again and looked at the inside cover. "'_From the library of Eife Gaughan.'_ Weird name. She'd seen it before. Maybe Eife had a habit of using paper clips as book marks...

Forty-five minutes and seventeen romance novels later, Tiffany had her second clip, taken from the hot pirate-wench threesome session on page 105 of "Three Hearts to the Wind" by Claire Sainte-Victoire. "Wow," Tiffany murmured. "This one deserves the paper clip." She dog-eared the page and slipped the book under her pillow for later... if there was a later.

An hour later, Tiffany crept through the musty-smelling attic in pitch dark, in her stocking feet, making for the faint horizontal line of light at the bottom of the attic door. She prayed that wasn't locked too... no way she'd be able to pick the lock in the dark. Trying the door, she sighed, "Yeah, here we go again." Was it worth the risk? She went back to her room again, positioned her lamp in the hope that it would cast light on the attic door beyond, and picked up her paper clips. As she walked into the attic again, the lamp's light illuminated the stored items she'd just walked through, that her captors walked past every day on their way in and out of her room. As comprehension dawned on her, she began to scream uncontrollably, and did not stop until the attic door burst open and a massive form rushed toward her.

Downstairs, the old lady was making brown soda bread, stirring the stiff batter with a wooden spoon. At the screaming, the rush of her old man up the stairs, and the loud bang of the attic door, she chuckled. "I told you she was smarter than she looked."


	36. Chapter 36

_**Too Soon Chapter 36 – Full Circle**_

_And the sun won't shine, into your room_  
_And the love you thought you felt_  
_Was never true_  
_Things seem so different now_  
_In my life_  
_And you know I felt the emptiness of time_

_It took me so long..._  
_to find myself...Someone to talk to_

_You say the world is wide_  
_And your thoughts are deep_  
_And the wind will carry_  
_Everything you keep_  
_Things seem so simple now_  
_In my life_  
_Now I've found someone_  
_Who makes it all seem right_

_And it took me so long..._  
_to find myself...  
Someone to talk to - The Devlins  
_

* * *

**June 25, Twelfth Precinct, 6 P.M. **

Kate had eaten at work (Rick had called in a spinach and bbq-chicken pizza order and had it delivered to the Precinct at 6 pm sharp). What she didn't eat was devoured by her coworkers in short order, all of them exhausted and needing a break. The extra load of cold cases brought to light, on top of the usual load of bottom-feeding humanity, was taking its toll on all of them. Gates' being distracted by her wife's injury wasn't helping.

Jordan Shaw gave Kate a call around 7. "Hey, I'm going to interview Kelly Nieman tomorrow. You wanna come?"

"Do I!" Kate enthused. "You mean I can participate?"

"Sure! But do me a favor... don't tell Castle, 'kay? I don't wanna rub it in his face."

"Of course. I'll make sure he has other plans. What time?"

They settled on 2 p.m. Kate wondered if Rick's intestinal difficulties would have resolved themselves by then. She hoped he was feeling better. Poor boy. She texted him: _"How are you?"_

He responded _"Blurgh. Might have flu. My hair hurts, 101 fever." _

"_Awww. Poor thing. Hope you'll be better tomorrow." _

"_Me too. Either that or shoot me." _

Captain Gates came in at 8, after bringing her wife home from the hospital, and, taking one look at Beckett's team, sent them all packing. "And don't come in before 10 a.m. tomorrow. I mean it."

**June 25, Three Crowns Hotel, 9:30 p.m.**  
When Kate arrived back at the hotel, she was already fighting sleep. She brushed her teeth, peeled out of her clothes, and crawled into bed next to her sleeping husband. His stomach was rumbling. He rolled over on his side, obviously uncomfortable, and she let him be, settling for a gentle kiss on his shoulder.

**June 26, Three Crowns Hotel, 3 a.m.**  
He awoke a few hours later and got up to use the bathroom again. They'd both become accustomed enough to the suite that they barely needed the nightlight to find everything. When he came back to bed, Kate stirred, and murmured, "My turn."

She used the bathroom, came back to bed, and when she settled in, he turned to her, humming deep in his chest. She said, "Hey. How you feeling?"

"A lot better. For a while I thought I was gonna give birth to a weasel or something."

Kate giggled. "Stop that. I've already had dreams I our baby turned out to be a possum."

"Cute or scary?"

"Oh, kind of cute, but clingy."

"Ah. Just like his daddy, then."

Kate ran a finger along Rick's jaw. "You're not clingy. You're just..." she yawned. "Growing a beard."

He put his cheek against hers, his rather sparse beard having grown past the irritating stubbly stage to cuddly scruff. She kissed him, and they pulled in close, reveling in the skin-to-skin contact. Kate reached up to run her hands through his hair...

_wait a minute._

She stopped, growing stiff in his arms.

He said, "What?"

She said, "I'm, uh, just going to turn on the light." There was a strange tension in her voice. She thumped around a little in the dark, and when the light was on, he was staring down the barrel of her gun, and her voice was hard.

"Who are you?" she snapped.

"Wha?"

She stared at him. "When did you last shave?"

"This afternoon. After I got back from Krimby and, you know, that thing with Nat and Nat."

He sat up in bed, feeling his jaw in perplexity, and she backed away, moving to turn on other lights in the room.

She was grilling him. "Our first case. What did I whisper in your ear? When you said we could have been good together."

"I have no idea. I mean, _you_ said, 'You have no idea'."

"What was Alex's favorite toy as a toddler?"

"Monkey Bunkey."

"What was Meredith's nickname for you?"

"Kitten. And Gina's was Slowpoke, and you call me Tiger. Or lover. Or WriterBoy. And my nickname for you is Kate. Right?"

Kate frowned, squinting at him, puzzled. "Do you feel all right?"

"Yeah," he said. "I felt like I had the flu earlier. I ached all over. But I feel fine." His eyes wandered over Kate's naked form. "In fact, until you shoved your gun in my face, I was feeling _great._"

Kate said, "Get up. Get out of bed."

"Okay..." He was also naked and felt unnerved at the gun, moved carefully, but he could see that her anxiety had given way to curiosity. He stood, hands in the air. "You do know I'm me, right?"

She said, "Turn around."

"Okay. Kate, do you mind telling me what..."

"How's your ankle?"

"It's fine. Why..."

"How's your back?"

"I dunno, it's fine, Kate, why..."

"Go look. Go look in the mirror, and explain this to me."

The room's large wall mirror reflected the bed from certain angles. He stared at his reflection in shock, and stepped over to the mirror. He ran a finger over the two-weeks-worth of growth on his jaw, then ran his hands through his tangled thatch of hair. It settled into place obediently like a well-trained, and extremely well groomed, chocolate Labrador retriever, as it always had before the crash, before they shaved his head.

He had a good 3/8" of beard, and his scalp, which had sprouted only a few weeks' growth of buzz cut, had dramatically grown as well. The stitched cut on his temple was a pale pink line receding into cover of his luxuriant growth. The red scar from his hip injury had similarly faded; the puckered skin down his left arm had relaxed and smoothed out; the bite on his ear had healed substantially; the constant faint broken-nose ache in his sinuses had disappeared completely. The awful bruises on his lower back had faded to nearly nothing. Best of all, when he tested his weight on his knee and ankle, the pain was only about a 2 out of 10. He knew better than to test his busted wrist by removing the cast, but he had a feeling that would show marked improvement as well.

He glanced over at Kate. "What the hell was in that smoothie?" But he was grinning like an idiot. Kate set the safety and put her gun down.

She blinked a couple of times, and then her nose wrinkled, and then her chin shook, and she was trying _so_ hard not to cry.

"Aww, Kate." He met her halfway across the room, and she sobbed into his chest.

"I- I- I m- m- missed your hair so much!" she wailed.

"Sssh, shhh. I promise if my hair falls out I'll get transplants." He grinned to himself, and then caught their reflection in the mirror. His arms were tightly around her, her beautiful, naked body pressed into his, her nose buried in the hollow of his neck. He suddenly realized she'd gained a tiny bit of weight, maybe only a pound or two, but enough to take the sharper edges off. He slid one hand down to cup her ass, bring her closer.

He said, "Hup!" like a lion tamer, and she let him heft her up, legs locked around his hips. Oh, she looked good that way, and he could bear her weight easily, painlessly. "Kate, I'm going to turn us. Look in the mirror."

"Wha- oh. Omigod."

"See? We look almost normal. We're gonna be fine."

She frowned anxiously. "I've gained weight on my butt."

"Yes. Enjoy it." Her center was so close, so warm and wet. He groaned, "Mmm. You get more beautiful every day."

"Really?"

He pushed forward a little with his hips, rocking her, and she writhed in response.

"Really." Then he laid her back on the bed and proved it to her.

•

**June 26, 9 a.m.**

Kate awoke with a smile and a nuzzle into the pillow. Rick was already in the shower, singing James Brown's "I Feel Good."

She stepped into the shower with him, just to make sure. Yes. He did. Sugar and spice.

•

**June 26, 10 a.m.**

After Beckett left for the Precinct, Castle tidied the little kitchen and sat at his laptop to write. Eventually his father came in from the adjoining suite and gave him a long, appraising look.

"How you feeling?"

Castle looked up from the laptop. "So what was in the smoothie?"

"Oh, whatever your mother found on the clearance rack at the health food store. Maybe it was the kombucha."

Castle just gave him a long, slow blink, eyes hooded and dark with suspicion. His voice was gruff. "Dad. How old are you?"

Jackson hesitated, then poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Let's just say I'm substantially older than your mother, and she was born in 1942." He took a sip, smiling appreciatively. "Your coffee's a hell of a lot better than mine."

"But it won't knock a couple years off my face. Or heal my injuries. Or make my hair grow a quarter inch overnight."

"No. That would involve dosing you with a substance purloined from a secret drug lab. Stuff so precious it doesn't even have a street value. And the folks who invented it are in the wind. Or dead."

"But you're not."

"I will be eventually. You got the last existing dose on your toothbrush yesterday morning."

Castle half-scowled. "Thank you. But you could have told me."

"Would you have taken it?"

"Maybe." He paused, alarmed. "Will it affect Kate? I kissed her..." He'd done more than kiss her. "What about the baby?"

Jackson shook his head. "The dose I gave you was infinitesimally small. Almost homeopathic level. Breaks down in seconds once it hits your system."

"What about side effects?"

"Hits the adrenals. Might have made you a little more emotional than normal."

"A _little_...? No kidding."

"Nothing you couldn't handle."

Castle sighed and pressed a hand to his eyes. "That's debatable. I got kicked out of the mental hospital."

The old man snickered. "That's quite an accomplishment. All for the best." Jackson held up a finger. "Hold that thought." He was back a moment later with his own laptop. "I've been thinking. Got some intel that might help our search."

He'd acquired it – somehow – from the FBI dossier on Michael McGowran, aka Jerry Tyson, aka Declan Connor, aka 43 other names. From rooms and cars and storage spaces he'd rented, to equipment he'd purchased, homes and vehicles he'd owned – even a plane still currently registered to one Derek Olson.

Rick chuckled bitterly. "Derek Olson was my protagonist in _'When it Comes to Slaughter'_. Sonofabitch."

The old man's expression turned sad. "I wish I'd known about your brother from the beginning," he sighed. "He wasn't even on my radar until I heard he'd tied you up in that motel room."

"How'd..."

"Newspaper? Hello?" Jackson said, "Here's the thing. They can't find the plane. Its last flight plan had it landing at a rural landing strip in Maine. It was in storage."

"Well, let's go!"

"What? No. The FBI interviewed the locals, the strip's rarely used and there's no regular attendant. Plane took off in the middle of the night sometime around Memorial Day."

Rick sighed.

"...but. It's not a huge plane. Had to stop to refuel." Jackson winked. "I did a search for bogies around Iceland, and here we go..."

"Don't you mean Ireland?"

"Too far. A small plane like that would have to refuel. I don't think even Michael McGowran had an aircraft carrier at his disposal."

Rick looked at Jackson cautiously. "Should we alert Interpol?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "Only if you want to throw a monkey wrench into the works. They're thorough, but they're slow. We need to travel light."

Rick smiled his relief. "That saves me having to ask you. Thanks."

Jackson said, "You're my son. So was Michael. I owe it to you, and I owe it to your brother's victims."

"You could have walked away at any time."

Jackson's laugh was a short, bitter bark. "Ha! I've spent two lifetimes walking away. About time I went full circle."

•

**June 26, 1 p.m.**

Minsky let Agent Shaw and Detective Beckett in to the high-security area, and they traveled down the long hallway. He wore rubber-soled shoes, and walked almost silently despite his heavy tread. Beckett and Shaw wore heels, and together they sounded just a little like a glamorous Pony Express.

Kate smiled rather grimly. "My shoes go with my purse."

"Hm?"

"Oh, you know. Clarice Starling, walking down that long hallway to visit Hannibal Lecter. He taunts her. Cheap shoes, expensive purse."

Shaw nodded, grinning. "Get two men in a room, sooner or later they bring up Deliverance. Two women in law enforcement? Either shoes, or Silence of the Lambs."

"Castle brought it up the other day. Silence of the Lambs, not the shoes."

"How is he?"

Kate frowned. "Hard to say. Physically? _Much_ better. The case," she shrugged. "Taking its toll."

Minsky glanced at the two women. "He's a decent guy. It's a shame he lost it with her, but it wasn't his fau-"

Dr. Patel came around the corner,. She gave Minsky a somewhat reproving look, waggling a finger at him. "Confidentiality, Mr. Minsky." She welcomed Beckett and Shaw, leading them to an observation room.

Kelly Nieman was back in a restraint jacket, but she had the freedom to walk around barefoot in a small padded room. She was nattering at the cameras in each corner, turning from one to another. "I know you're watching me. I know you think I'm out of control. You think I'm gonna give the last little girl up. Well, fuck that. Tiffany's dead meat by now. It's a shame they don't have Fourth of July barbeques in Ireland." She paced the little room, criss-crossing then circumnavigating the walls. "You'll be lucky even to find her body. Haha, luck of the Irish!" she chuckled, then her demeanor changed. Honestly, it reminded Beckett a little of herself in the interrogation room. Start out low key, and build the intensity. "I want Rick. We need to finish our book. I need to see him. I need to see Rick Castle! He needs me! He's nothing without me. I'm his _muse_, goddamn it!"

Shaw watched the outburst impassively, but Kate went a little pale. Dr. Patel looked at her closely as she pulled a pack of crackers out of her purse.

"When are you due, Detective Beckett?" At Kate's confusion, the doctor added, "Your husband told me. He's very excited."

Kate shrugged and accepted the snack with a half-hearted smile. _"NO privacy,"_ she thought. "February. Maybe Valentine's day."

Patel smiled and patted her hand. "I'll think good thoughts."

She turned to Shaw. "I got clearance for this interrogation. Dr. Nieman's been clean from narcotics for nearly a month. She had a low dose yesterday afternoon, and is already experiencing symptoms of early withdrawal. She may stay coherent long enough to give you the information you need. The addictive body chemistry kicked right in."

Shaw grimaced. "So predictable that way."

Nieman was screaming, "Patel! Answer me! I need to get out of here! I need to talk to Castle!"

Dr. Patel pressed the intercom button. "Someone is here for a visit now. If you agree to cooperate, you may see them."

"Is it Castle?"

"Not Mr. Castle. His wife, Detective Beckett."

Nieman chuckled. "Hah. She's not his wife. He can run circles around her."

Kate paled a little. She cocked an eyebrow at Shaw and Patel, who both nodded the go-ahead.

"Dr. Nieman, I have some questions I'd like to ask you about my husband. About some files I found on Castle's computer."

"Files? What files?"

"Little home movies he made."

There was a long silence. Nieman continued to pace, moving more and more quickly. Finally she cried "SHIT!" and slammed herself against a wall. She sank to her haunches, sobbing. "No, no, no, we're not done yet!"

"You don't feel too well right now, do you?" asked Shaw.

"Fuck off."

Dr. Patel said, "Agent Shaw and Detective Beckett would like your cooperation. Your game is over, Dr. Nieman. Now we're just tying up the loose ends. And when they have the information they want, I will give you something that will make you feel better."

Nieman hung her head, lank hair curtaining her face. Finally she shrugged and sighed. "All right, you simpering Packi bitch. Whatever."

Patel rolled her eyes at the other two women and muttered "Piece of work, this one!" She pressed the com button again. "The orderlies will bring you into the interrogation room. We expect you to behave in a civil manner. You are fully capable of it."

"Bleah, blah, blah," replied Nieman, and then after another long silence, "I'll talk."

For Beckett and Shaw, it was only a few steps to the interrogation room. Before she entered, Kate looked down at her rings and kissed them with a rueful smile. With a little effort, almost as if they were reluctant to be removed, she twisted them off and tucked them into her front pocket. Her fingers had swollen slightly, and the rings had left a slight pink dent, but it would settle out in a few minutes. She took a seat at the interrogation table next to Shaw. Patel was on the other side of the mirror, and the orderlies led Nieman in, seated her, and secured her restraints. She wasn't going anywhere.

She looked awful. She'd gained and lost weight several times in five weeks, her hair color had faded and her inch-long roots were more salt than pepper. Her skin was pasty and dry, her eyes red and hollow, her nose blotchy with spider veins, her forehead still bruised from slamming it the other day.

Nieman stared at herself in the mirror and let out a low, wordless moan. "Auuueeew, what the fuck. Get that thing out of here."

Shaw said, "So sorry. It's built into the wall."

"Turn my chair."

"Nuh-uh. Can't be done. Now, I'd like to remind you this session is not like those with Mr. Castle. You are being recorded. For the record."

"Why the change?"

"Because you may be accessory to a few new murders, and whether you're sane or not, we need whatever information you can give." She glanced over at Kate, who had a hand over her eyes a moment and said apologetically, "Sorry, Detective Beckett. I know this is hard for you."

Kate nodded, clearly agitated and trying to collect herself. Shaw took out a file and laid out an array of stills from the false 'snuff' movies Castle had shown Nieman on his little camera. There were photos of Rick staring into the lens, of Kayla Twimbly shrinking back in fear then dead on the bed. There were photos of the dance school dungeon, of Elise Mowry and her three captors, of Castle knocking the girl back, killing the others, then killing her.

Nieman said, "Huh." She leered at Kate. "Looks like your man's been busy."

Kate glared the full force of her rage at the madwoman. It was oddly satisfying; Nieman's gaze shrank away. Beckett said, "Want a cigarette?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you can't have one." She glanced up at Shaw.

Agent Shaw identified everyone in the photos and said, "I don't suppose you know how Castle found the girls, or how these murders got onto Mr. Castle's hard drive."

"How should I know?"

Kate said, "You've never seen these before?"

"Of course not."

"It's obvious he made them for you," Shaw said. "You must be very proud."

Nieman's face contorted in confusion. She _was_ proud of him, proud of herself for bringing out his true nature. She was so relieved not to be alone, to have someone who understood, someone so smart. But she was also disappointed, because he'd been stupid. He'd been caught. Or had he?

She tried not to let her voice shake. "Have you arrested him?"

"We can't find him," Beckett snapped. "From his notes, it looks like he's gone off looking for Tiffany Ross." She placed her palms on the table and rose to her full height, towering over Nieman. "We need to find them. Where is she?"

Nieman smirked down at Kate's hands.

"I see you took your rings off." She looked up at Kate. "So much for _'always'_." But she'd started to sweat and shake, just a little. The drugs were fading out of her system.

Kate slammed forward, her face an inch from Nieman's. "You did this to him, you raving bitch." The woman smelled like death. Beckett had to force herself not to back away.

Nieman smirked. "Don't think all your love can save him, Darlin'. He's already gone." She glanced down at the photos. "You've seen it yourself. It's fun watchin' him onscreen, in't it? He's a natural."

Shaw arose and patted Kate on the shoulder before she could throttle Nieman. "We're really not interested in saving Mr. Castle at this point... or at least, I'm not." She glanced sidelong at Beckett. "However, we understand that the last murder was supposed to be committed on July 4, assuming that everything had gone to plan. And that it's possible Miss Ross is being held in Ireland."

Nieman's tongue darted out and passed along dry lips. "We've been all over Ireland. She could be anywhere."

"We?"

"Michael and me. His friends."

"Which friends?"

A hint of frustration swept across her face. Her glance darted away. "He was _my_ partner," she mumbled.

"We know Michael was your partner. So, where's Tiffany Ross?"

"It was our deal. We used to do everything together." Her mouth twitched, and she shuddered inside her straight jacket. "Bastard."

"What are you saying?"

"The night we took Tiffy, we had a fight. Michael had a hell of a temper, you know."

Kate's heart sank. She pulled out a water bottle and drank most of it down. Nieman stared at the water bottle, obviously thirsty.

Shaw said, "You want some water, Dr. Nieman?"

"Yeah. Don't tell me, I get it after my cigarette?" She shivered a little. There was no ashtray in this room. No cigarettes. No Rick Castle.

Shaw turned to the mirror. "Can we get some water, please? And a straw?"

A moment later, Minsky came in, bearing a covered water cup, the kind they have in hospitals.

Shaw took the cup. "Thanks. God, who picks these colors out? And why?"

"Yeah," Nieman agreed. "Baby-shit gold. Baboon-arse pink. Cyanotic blue. Army green."

"You have a certain aesthetic," Shaw said. "You're particular." She leaned across with the water, and Nieman drank thirstily. "An artist."

"Yeah, I'm an artist!" Nieman said proudly. She looked closely at Kate. "I could have done marvelous things for you. But Michael..." she stopped.

"Michael what? Did he not agree?"

"We went back and forth about it. One day he wants to kill all of you in yer sleep. The next he wants to adopt you all and live in his little bunker up in the Catskills. One happy family. Then he wants to kill everyone and make Ricky watch. Then, no, Ricky has to kill everyone. Proof of brotherly love. There's nothin' like a control freak who can't make up his feckin' mind."

"And what did that have to do with Tiffany?"

"Well, ya know, Michael wanted to do his favorite routine, stranglin' the blonde and layin' her out. He gets a bit tetchy if he goes too long, and you know, he had Marcus Gates do the last batch, so it was past his time and he was missin' his Mam, poor lad."

Shaw said quizzically, "His Ma'am?"

"His mother. When it got too much, he'd get the special rope out. Three blondes. He never did explain why three, though. What, Castle didn't tell you?"

Kate nodded. "He told me." She was feeling pretty sick.

"I used to hate it when Michael would say, 'Hey, I been thinkin'. Because he'd come up with some other complicated thing. It should be simple, you know? 'Michael. Does it have to be three, and do they have to be blondes?' 'Yes!' 'Why?' 'Because that's the way it is!'"

Kate stared at her, dazed. Every time Rick said, _"I've been thinking..." _it always led to something wonderful. They were so alike, yet so different.

Nieman continued. "But it had its good side. I got to make myself look a bit like Meredith, and she's quite the little hottie. But then she left us, so that was no good."

"Left _us_?"

"Well, we are family, after all. We both loved watching Alexis, but Michael thought Meredith was a lyin' bitch. He came thiiis close to takin' photos and sendin' them to Rick. Then our lad caught the little whore with her director, and they divorced, so that was a moot point."

"What about Gina?"

"Oh, come on. Anyone could see that wouldn't last!" Nieman chuckled. "Anyone except Rick. But she got what she wanted out of it. Lucky for her that Michael checked himself into jail while they were married. He had trouble with blondes."

Shaw said, "If by 'trouble' you mean 'trouble keeping himself from killing them.'"

Nieman nodded. "Yeah." She shivered again.

"If Michael was so obsessed with Rick, why didn't he make a move sooner?"

"I think mostly because he was happy enough traveling in separate circles, even before he went underground. Maybe he was waiting for the right time. As I said, indecisive right up till the moment he knows exactly what he wants. I ran the business end while he was in jail. But when Castle killed off Storm and started writing Nikki Heat..."

She shot a calculating look at Beckett. Beckett said, "It threw the balance off. Rick was getting too deep in with the Twelfth. Michael read the Nikki book and knew that he wanted his next murder in the Twelfth Precinct – wanted to see if Rick would rise to the bait."

"Clever girl you are! Clever Rick, too. Seein' through Marcus Gates."

"Close call," said Shaw.

"After Rick sussed Michael out, I started to get the feelin' Michael's days were numbered. He was getting too attached. Too sloppy – even fuckin' with Rick's computer and, you know, the bugs and cams in the loft. Only a matter of time before someone found them. Did you know he got pneumonia when he fell into the River?"

Now it was Kate's turn to shiver – she knew those cold, filthy waters too well. "You fished him out?"

"I did. Hauled him out on the jetty, ruined my favorite Jimmy Choos."

"Tragic," Shaw grimaced.

"Tulip Glitter Suede Platform Pumps."

Kate paused a moment. "Oh, man. I almost bought a pair of those."

"Yeah, sucks, right? Anyway, we fought like hell over every damn murder since. He was torn in two, poor thing. Didn't know if he wanted a family or a nice fresh pile of victims."

"And Tiffany Ross?"

"He wanted to take Tiff to Ireland and have Rick kill her there. Where it began. For bonding, or an apology maybe. Michael could be a bit of a nut."

Shaw chuckled at that understatement, but Kate stayed serious. "And you didn't like that plan?"

"Hell no! I like warm weather. I wanted to do it in Miami, but noooo. Michael loved that symbolic stuff. He wanted to go full circle. To show their mother – their real mother – who was the better son. Smarter. He wanted to take Ricky's place. But..."

"But what?" said Kate.

"You! Is what." She looked at the straw, and Shaw held it out to her. "We used to watch you. The Rick and Kate show." She snickered. "You had some pretty hot times. So did we, at first. But I could see I was bein' edged out of the picture. Michael wanted everything Rick had. I started thinkin', maybe if I could get my hands on your face, you wouldn't be so pretty any more. And also it occurred, maybe the best man might win, and it might not be Michael."

"Did you kill Michael?"

"I helped a little. Ricky did that, but I shot the petrol tank. Michael should've killed him when he had the chance."

Shaw said, "When exactly was that?"

Nieman laughed, then seemed to be taken with some kind of spasm, and continued speaking with effort. "When wasn't it? Rick Castle stands out like a sore thumb. But Michael, he... ugh. Fuck." She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. "Bloody hell, that hurts." She glared up at the mirror. "I need more medication," she snarled.

Dr. Patel's voice said, "That is contingent on your cooperation."

Nieman laughed again, but it was a little hysterical. She wagged her head from side to side, her shaggy hair flopping, singsonging "oh God oh God oh God, you know how to stick my wee feet to the fire, you bitch." She spasmed again. A few moments later, Minsky returned with a kidney-shaped basin, the kind you hurl into. It was cyanotic blue.

Nieman retched a little. Kate's knuckles were white on the edge of the table. "Where is Tiffany Ross? Who's holding her?"

"Michael had a tantrum and flew off with her. We didn't even speak for three feckin' days. I almost thought he wasn't coming back for the wedding." Her voice grew thick as her mouth flooded with saliva. "I need the drugs, Patel!" she roared.

"I seem to be having some trouble getting the dose calculated," said Patel's calm voice. "All in good time."

"GIVE IT!" Kelly hunched over, retching again. It sounded like she was going to cough up a ball of wet twine.

Kate blenched. Shaw glanced over at Kate. "I've got it from here," she said. Kate flew to the door and Minsky let her out. She leaned on the wall, breathing hard, trying not to get sick. Minsky had a basin for her, too. This one was a nice, shiny stainless steel. Kate took it with gratitude, but as her breathing calmed and the slightly fresher air cleared her head, the nausea subsided.

Minsky said, "You Castles got sensitive tummies."

Kate grinned ruefully. "Usually we're both cast iron."

He shrugged. "It's just bein' human."

Back in the interrogation room, Jordan was a still-point of calm, rising out of her chair and backing away from the table a few steps. Nieman rocked back and forth. The sick woman leaned her forehead on the table, which was something of a feat considering the straight jacket. Then she vomited, pretty much everywhere but the basin. Nieman called out miserably, "Minsky! Get your fat arse in here, I've messed meself!"

Dr. Patel had joined Minsky and Beckett in the hallway. She had rolled out a little metal cart with various implements and a syringe, and clean linens on the lower shelf. "I've called for a gurney. She probably won't be mobile much longer."

Nieman sat back, her face and clothing wet, eyes tearing, sinuses flooded. Shaw kept her distance. "Don't feel too bad. Couple years ago both kids and my husband had the flu at the same time. Doesn't phase me."

"Fuck you and your feckin' family, too."

Shaw smiled, and something about her smile told Nieman that she had no hope of control in this situation. Another spasm wracked her, and next time it wouldn't be coming out of her mouth.

Shaw said, "So Michael flew off with Tiffany, and boy were his wings tired."

"Yeah. In the B20. Probably gonna switch to a bigger plane in Iceland."

"Were they alone?"

"Ugh. Stop."

"Were they on their own, or was someone with him?"

"The big fella. I lured her in, Michael took her down, the big fella helped him get her into the van. They had a shipping crate, all padded inside.

"The Big Fella? Ever get a name?"

"Murray. No. Murphy."

"What's he look like?"

She chuckled miserably. "Like a side of bacon. Red hair, rosacea on his cheeks, lots of sun damage and enlarged pores. Bit o' Colm Meaney to him, only jowlier."

"Where were they taking her?"

"Oh, God, I need... agh! I don't know! I don't know what he did with her. I don't know who she's with. I DON'T KNOW!" She was squirming in pain, her knees up tightly under the bottom of the table.

"Well, then," Shaw picked up a pen and paper. "Who does?"

"Richard Castle," she shuddered. "He'll figure it out. Rick figures everything out, given time."

Shaw's eyes narrowed. "And if Castle finds her before we do?"

Amidst a contortion of pain, a triumphant grin flashed across Nieman's face and was gone. "Then he kills her, and he's mine. I win."

Shaw nodded concession. "And if Murphy kills her first?"

"Well, then, Rick's still out of your jurisdiction on the Auld Sod. He's got the means. And now he's got the method, and the motive. You'll never catch him. He's my legacy – our legacy, mine and Michael's. And it's a sight better than any stupid book. Again, I win. I've already won."

Shaw smiled grimly. "Well. You've been somewhat helpful in spite of yourself." She rose and knocked. "Dr. Patel, we're through here for now."


	37. Chapter 37

**Too Soon Chapter 37 – Plaque Buildup**

* * *

_**Surveillance Report: **_

_**from Irish Central Intelligence to U.S.N.S.A**_

_**June 30, 2014, 5 p.m.**_

_Intercepted texts between Richard Castle Beckett and Kate Castle Beckett. Some items have been redacted for brevity and were irrelevant to our investigation._

R_: Landed._  
K_: Finally! OK?_  
R_: Kissing ground. Would rather be kissing you._  
K_: Ditto._  
R_: You're kissing ground?_  
K_: ER_  
R_: ?_  
K_: EyeRoll_  
R_: ERU2_  
K_: How's your rock star friend?_  
R_: On tour. Lending us his copter, though._  
K_: Seriously?_  
R_: Sorry, Ma'am, that's classified. ;-)  
_K_: Doesn't he wear glasses?_  
R_: 8-) he lent them to me._

**June 30, 2014, 7 p.m.  
**_R: At Cliffs of Insanity. Too dark to see anything much. Probably a good thing, long drop.  
__K: Don't turn back on ocean  
R: It's 200 feet down  
K: Then that goes double!  
R: So tired I can't think of witty rejoinder.  
K: you get points for 'rejoinder'. Go eat mussels and drink beer.  
R: God, I miss you.  
K: I miss U2.  
R: Let's not start that again. Tomorrow?_  
_K: Tomorrow xo  
R: X. O. X again. Right there.  
K: Oh!_

**July1, 2014, 3 a.m., New York City**

_R: Ping._

_K: Can't sleep? Neither can I._  
_R: I wish I could •••• ••• right now  
K: MMM. That would feel so ••••••••••••••••  
R: •••••••••••••••• ••••••••••• •••••• ••• you.  
K: ••••• •••••••••••• •••• •••••! Yes!  
(this continues for about twenty minutes, and is redacted due to content unrelated to case)  
R: Night. xo  
K: Night. Xo_  
_R: P.S. Accidentally woke Betsy up now she wants to sleep on me._  
_K: I sent her to keep you in line  
R: I lick you very much :-p_

**July 1, 2014, Doolin, Ireland; 5 a.m.**  
_Javier Esposito to Dr. Helena "Lanie" Parrish:  
J: Yochica  
H: Really? Now?  
J: Nevermind._

**July 1, noon, The Burren**  
_It is unknown whether Mr. Castle's team realises they are being observed. Agent Rourke thinks they'd be eejits not to have noticed us. But they seem very absorbed in whatever it is they are seeking. Movements amongst the group seem ill-planned and unfocused, and are apparently at the behest of Mr. Castle._

_Their plane from Iceland landed at the strip on Inish Boffin then took off for points unknown. They were met by a chartered helicopter and taken to the Cliffs of Moher shortly before sunset. A hired SUV met them at the cliffs. They spent the night at a B&amp;B near Doolin, and then the next day on Inish Mor visiting the Fort and, at low tide, exploring some caves along the cliff base. They took the ferry from Inish Mor to Galway. Only Esposito and the dog were seasick. A car dealership delivered another SUV to them, which Mr. Castle had apparently paid for by cashier's check. They have driven to numerous spots about the country (which is admittedly only about 50 miles wide). These sites included several abandoned castles, so-called "fairy rings", the Burren dolmen graves, NewGrange heritage monument, and other pre-Christian sites of note._

_The subjects seem to be headed, in a meandering way, toward Dublin, but their intention – whether legitimate or not – is unknown. Some tourism may be on the agenda. NYPD Detective Ryan in particular has taken at least 300 selfies and done a significant amount of research in small local historic libraries. Much of this is not yet online, and we have difficulty discerning what he was looking at, or why. Agent Gashkori thinks we should just give them a ring and ask them, but management does not want us to tip our hand._

**July 2, 2014, 11 a.m.  
_Text, Kevin Ryan to Jennifer Ryan:_**

_K: How are my girls?  
J: Baby was up all night :-( We miss you!_

_(conversation continues and appears to be about an actual baby. No mention as to the mission other than): _  
_  
K: I want to believe in Castle but this is pretty far-fetched.  
J: Ha! Far-fetched! LOL!  
K: What?  
J: Duh. You have a dog with you. Fetch. Get it?  
K: LOL! Sorry, brain dead. Coffee here is disgusting. Tea's not so bad.  
J: They don't have honeymilk ;-)  
K: Not like yours they don't.  
(Agents are attempting to discern the meaning of code word 'honeymilk')_

**July 2, 2014, 1 p.m.  
_Text, Commander ••••••••••••••• (Avoca, Ireland) to Martha Rodgers (New York)_  
**

_•: We're not dead yet._  
_M: Keep it that way. If anything happens to him I'll hold you responsible._  
_•: So will I. What if something happens to me?  
M: I'll hold myself responsible. You don't want to see me being responsible, do you?  
•: Good lord no.  
M: Well, then.  
M: Seriously, get them home. Alexis is worried sick.  
•: Alexis is worried sick?  
M: We both are. We all are. About all of you.  
M: Still there?_  
_M: Yoo-hoo! ?  
__  
**July 2, 2014, 1:12 p.m.  
_Text, Commander ••••••••••••••• (Avoca, Ireland) to Martha Rodgers (New York)_**  
•: I love you.  
M: Well, it's about time._  
_M: Don't worry, I won't let that go to my head. See you after the show. Break a leg, Darling._

_(Note, our Agents had not traveled in theatrical circles and there was some excitement over "Break a Leg" until its meaning had been determined. Apparently Ms. Rodgers is an actress. Agents do not get out much. We are unsure why Commander ••••••••••••••• imparted this intel then did not respond to her additional texts. It may be some kind of code. In espionage, "I love you" rarely means what one would think.)_

_M: ;-)  
M: Still there?  
M: Everything ok?_  
_M: I hate when you disappear without warning.  
M: •••••••••?  
_

_**July 2, 2014, 1:20 p.m.  
_Text Martha Rodgers (New York)_** **to** _**_Commander ••••••••••••••• (Avoca, Ireland)_**_  
M: For what it's worth, I love you, too.  
Commander •••••••••••••••• did not respond to this text.  
Field surveillance reports he was accessing an off-limits area of Sugarloaf Mountain, and was not within texting range. _

**July 3, 2014 – 3 a.m., Ireland**  
_Castle and his team spent the late afternoon at Powerscourt Gardens, touring the waterfall, climbing to its top, attempting to go behind the stream in the apparent belief there might be a hidden room. They also toured the grounds and took tea in the newly rebuilt interior. Aside from Commander ••••••••••••, none of them appears to be in a good mood._

_The dog – who is apparently a blue-tick American bloodhound - grew overexcited and barked at a wall. When staff arrived to admonish them, they left. Based on security camera footage, at approximately 2 a.m., they returned; Castle and Commander ••••••• somehow overrode the security gate and returned to the suspected section of wall. Then the cameras shorted out, and the rest of the recording is a shootout scene from a space western. I suspect we have been made._

_When we investigated the wall the following morning, we found that the plaque had been polished to a high shine but otherwise undisturbed. Amusingly, it was dedicated to architect Richard Cassels, who designed the grand house in the 1700s. Perhaps this is some kind of perverse vandalism._

_**July 3, 2014, - 7 a.m., New York**_

_Text from Richard Castle Beckett to Kate Castle Beckett:_

_R: Found flash drive from 3XK  
K: ! WHERE?  
R: Behind shiny brass plaque dedicated to Richard Castle, architect Powerscourt House  
K: Anything on it?  
R: Encrypted. Beating head against wall now.  
K: Whose?  
R: Mine  
K: DO NOT DAMAGE NEW HAIR. Or brain. How'd you find flashdrive?_  
_R: Betsy went NUTS. Must have smelled him. Then I noticed plaque had been removed &amp; replaced. Flash drive tucked into chink in mortar._  
_K: GOOD GIRL BETSY!  
R: She's near retirement, can you believe it?_  
_K: You want to adopt her.  
R: God, I love you so much  
K: Yet you're sleeping with her  
R: Haha. SLEEPING. :-D No, we just cuddle. Mo pretends to be jealous. I actually think he's enjoying the bed space.  
K: Srsly, r u you actually sleeping?_  
_R: Not much. You?_  
_K: Like a rock. With a baby rock in it.  
R: I miss you.  
K: We miss you!  
R: We?  
K: Not just the Royal We. Xo_

_Agents feel some concern about the reference to Royal We, but it is unknown whether the Castles have any ties to HRME2 or family. _

* * *

**Tullow Hotel, Executive Suite, July 3, 1 pm**

They stayed in a little hotel in a rather miserable, semi-industrial town called Tullow. Rick, who really needed down-time to think, sent the others off sight-seeing at St. Kevin's Tower, a few miles away in the Wicklow mountains. The damn movie had filmed all over Ireland, and they'd covered almost every location. He'd loved them all back then, drawn into the history and romance of evergreen Ireland, but now all he wanted to do was find Tiffany and go home. He sat scowling at his laptop, staring at the icon for 3XK's flash drive.

When he'd pulled it carefully out of the wall chink with his fingertips, Rick had been surprised to find it labeled, _"RichardCastleNYC"._ Too easy? No. Michael had wanted it found, wanted the flash drive itself to reach him specifically, or nobody.

But now, with it plugged into the laptop and the little animated icon winking at him in mockery, he wanted to yank the flash drive out and throw it across the room.

He sipped his tea and skyped Kate.

She was up and showered, wearing her lavender silk robe, her hair wrapped in a towel.

He took a deep breath, as if he could inhale her from three thousand miles away. "You showered without me. Lucky shower."

Her eyes glowed. "It's so good to see your face. Except that you look miserable."

"You up for building some theory?"

"Well, I should put some clothes on first."

"Could we do naked theory building?"

She scowled in mock reproval. "No distractions. Now, what seems to be the problem, Mr. Beckett?"

He hesitated. "You know, I kind of like that."

"You do?"

"It's growing on me. Like moss. I've..."

"Don't say it..."

"Taken a lichen to it."

"Castle! You said it!" but she was laughing. "Damn it." She took a sip of her coffee, then scowled down at it. "There's something wrong with this coffee."

"What?"

"Well, two things. A) it's decaf and B) it wasn't made by you."

"The horror. But at least you can drink it now."

"Morning sickness has subsided a little." She smiled, and then her expression turned serious.

"Theory."

"Yeah," he sighed. "3XK left this for me but it's passworded. No, I don't know if 'passworded' is even a word. I'll look it up later."

"How many characters?"

"Seven."

"Ouch."

"I tried the obvious. doesn't work."

"He chose something you'd know. Everyone kno U."

"Yeah, I know." He sighed and mussed his hair. Kate's heart swelled up, popped, and remade itself again, one size larger. "Can nothing ever be easy?"

She tilted her head. "_Seriously_?"

"What."

"Castle, you are... pouting. You own a Ferrari, you've written a bazillion books, you've been around the world and done most of the things on your bucket list, including..." She bit her lip then grinned salaciously.

"Including you."

"You've had to work hard, sure, but you are SO spoiled. You get what you want all the time. You have a memory like a steel trap. People like you... for no explicable reason. It's okay if this is a little hard. Michael may have been a psychopath and an asshole, but he understood you on some level. A part of you is enjoying this puzzle."

Castle scowled. "Are you kidding me? He did this to torture me."

Beckett got serious now. "Castle. He's tortured plenty of people, with no regrets. But he _toyed_ with you. Played with you. He was..." she shook her head. "For lack of a better word, I think he was lonely. He wanted you to pick up the ball and run with it."

Rick's tea now made a knot in his stomach, and he cupped his forehead in his hand. "I hate this."

"I hate it too. But I love you. And I believe in you."

He looked back up at the screen. Her eyes were kind. "Now, normally I'd tell you to get to work, but maybe what you really need is playtime." She shook her hair down out of the towel and batted her eyelashes at him.

"Playtime? Kate, I need to focus..."

She slid her robe down off one shoulder. "You focus better when you're relaxed."

"I, uh..." His eyes went wide and bright blue, watching her lavender robe fall away. Her perky little breasts were definitely rounder than before, the nipples semi-erect and blushing. "Wow. Pregnancy suits you."

Kate glanced down, shimmied her torso, and grinned. "I know, right? I think they've grown a bit. Almost worth the soreness." She skimmed over her breasts with her fingertips, and her nipples went hard and precious as diamonds. The look she shot him was anything but innocent. "Don't fight it, Castle."

"I hear that 'surrender means going over to the winning side'."

Kate nodded. "Let me see your flag, Soldier."

* * *

•

**Tullow Hotel, Executive Suite, 1:30 p.m.**

Rick was lying on the bed, dazed by the irresistible combination of skype-sex orgasm and jet lag. Hovering at the edge of sleep, he accessed areas of mind and memory that weren't usually available in the workaday world. It was somewhere between meditation and lucid dreaming. Sometimes everything was cinematic and clear, sometimes phrases and distinct voices flowed in and out of his thoughts, saying things he never would have expected.

He stood at the Pearly Gates next to Michael, going over Michael's murder board as it hovered like a soiled and bleeding dove. Michael resembled himself as Declan Connor, young and bright-eyed, his face unchanged by plastic surgery, with a beard and tangled, short dreads. He'd sprouted something like the stumps of wings, not even big enough to lift a chicken, featherless and naked. He glanced at Rick, barely acknowledging him, absorbed in watching the screens. Murder and mayhem, violence and abuse, screaming and pleading.

Petros was there too. He greeted Rick with a smile and handshake, warmth beaming from his ancient dark eyes. "Nice job on the girls," he said. "Just one to go."

Rick said, "I don't even know if she's still alive."

Michael said, "Oh, she's alive all right. You're supposed to kill her."

"Now why would I do that?"

"Kill or be killed, right?"

"I already did that with you. I'm over it." Rick looked over Michael's shoulder at the board. "Helps if you make a timeline," he said.

"Go to town," Michael murmured. He was watching himself murder his mother, over and over, dragging her limp body across the room, putting the noose around her neck, using the top of the door as a pulley to haul her up, tying the rope to the door. Wearing gloves, because like Rick, Michael was a thorough researcher from way back.

Rick glanced at the screen. Images flashed in his mind of 3XK's adoptive – accidental – hapless and hopeless mom. The first time he saw her, she'd been very blurry, squatting, on a bed next to his own mother. What was her name? Deirdre McGowran. Naked, skinny but for her belly, blonde hair braided back out of the way, arms crossed at the elbow, two hands holding hers. From his Bradley training with Meredith, he recognized it as an optimal pushing position. So Betty, the obstetric-nurse-practitioner-moonlighting-as-back-alley-abortionist, actually knew what she was doing.

A woman's voice. Betty. "Ok, Dierdre. Breathe. Now, one more push. You can do it."

Deirdre let out a long, gritted cry of effort, then lay back. Her baby was so still, so quiet, Betty laboring over him.

Deirdre said, "He's blue." Her voice was flat, exhausted.

Betty said, "I want you to just put your hand on his little chest and see if we can get some blood circulating, okay?"

Deirdre said, "He's dead. The baby's dead."

Betty was suctioning the baby's nose and mouth. She gave him a rescue breath, but he didn't respond. She instructed Deirdre: "Keep at it. Sometimes babies pull through this."

Martha, her voice younger and higher, but hoarse from exhaustion, said, "Betty, I feel dizzy." The baby Richard felt her hold on him weaken. Betty said, "Oh, shit. Holy shit, Martha, hang on." Betty took Richard from Martha's arms and set him aside in a bassinet. He started to cry.

Betty leaned over him, her round, kind face in full focus. "Shh, BigBoy. Momma's busy, just a few minutes now." She stuck a brand-new pacifier in his offended mouth, and he sucked on it miserably, listening to the sound of Betty talking to his mother, the words only noises he'd never processed or understood, just stored away like a cuneiform tablet, waiting for the Rosetta Stone. "Okay, Martha, honey, you're hemorrhaging right around your second baby. So just push one more time, okay sweetie? And I'll get you all to a hospital. Come on now, Martha. Martha! Wake up."

Martha mumbled something, and Betty said "NO YOU DON'T! One push. You can do it."

Through it all, Deirdre sobbed softly. Then Michael was born, screaming. (He'd died screaming, too. Whose fault was that? Rick wasn't sure.)

Betty said, "Deirdre! I need you to help me. Look at me. I have to get Martha to the hospital."

"So I'm just fucked then."

"Honey, your baby's gone, but this one needs you. I don't even have time to swaddle him. Now get up and help me."

"I just gave birth!"

"Yes, and Chinese women give birth in the fields, and you're feelin' no pain. You want Martha and her babies to die, too?"

Michael continued screaming. Baby Richard watched as his brother's writhing body descended like a falling gargoyle from the water-stained ceiling, red and greasy-white, hefted by Betty's freckled, sturdy hands. Then the two brothers were reunited for a moment, snuggled close, familiar, and blissfully quiet. Inside their mother, they had slipped around next to one another, vied for space and nutrients, but enjoyed each other's company in an abstract way as they fit their bodies into the confines of her womb, awaiting birth. Of course they had been together, since the first spark of life. Of course they would always be together, they should be, they were practically one flesh. Their breathing matched as had their heartbeats in utero, and they were almost instantly asleep.

So peaceful. Rick had to fight sleep then, fight to stay with the memory.

And then baby Richard, swaddled and pacified, was torn away from his brother. He looked around frantically, as well as he could considering he couldn't even hold his own goddamn head up. Betty – who was almost six feet tall and built like a linebacker – had Martha in a fireman's carry, wrapped in a blanket with blood seeping through. Dressed only in a robe and sneakers, Deirdre carried Richard along, accompanying Betty to her waiting car. A piercing spring breeze and bright sunlight stung the baby's face raw. He smelled something he would much later come to realize was sycamore sap rising. Betty put the barely-conscious Martha in the passenger seat while Deirdre placed Richard on the back seat floor, in an empty cardboard file box Betty kept for emergencies such as this. No baby seats were required back then.

Deirdre stood by the driver's seat door for a moment. "What should I do?"

"Feed that baby and keep him warm! I'll drop her off at the hospital and be back as soon as I can. Go _on_, Deirdre!"

Richard cried himself back to sleep on the way to the hospital, watching the indistinct shapes of newly-budded leaves through the rear window, green and gray blurring against a cold blue sky.

* * *

The gates were still pearly, but the clouds were dark, churning with things that might have been demons, might have been the souls of the damned, forming and unforming, undulating, peripheral visions of horror. Castle used his finger on the board to trace through the images, hundreds of blurry faces, some based on photos from the research and casework he'd done on serial killers. He saw horrible things, all the pain Michael had carried with him like a crooked cross, with tender souls, unique and innocent lives impaled on its arms. It was impossible not to hate Michael McGowran, who stood chuckling, watching himself torturing a woman who looked like Lanie, slowly strangling her on a lonely dock.

Castle's fury welled up. He wanted to rip those nascent wings out by the roots. He felt a tingling in his shoulder and a large, clawed hand curled chummily around his bicep.

"Go ahead," Mephistopheles purred in his ear. "You know you want to." Rick glanced over at the demon, who was as beautiful and ugly as ever. Tiny volcanoes like black barnacles clustered all over his hermaphroditic breasts, oozing lava, or perhaps pus, that blackened and rubberized into miniscule, sticky, clinging hands, beckoning him.

Petros' voice was firm at his other shoulder. "What are you here for? Revenge or rescue?"

"Thanks." He found the image, sitting in circle at preschool. He remembered Deirdre now, dropping little Mikey off late on his first day. Deirdre's body and face were skinny and lined, skin dry and scabby, her long blonde hair uncombed. She wore faded jeans, a too-tight shirt, and black high-heeled sandals. When she bent to kiss Michael goodbye, a pack of cigarettes tumbled out of her stained canvas purse. Mikey was stone-faced, skinny, and a little smelly, wearing a cheap yellow breast-pocket t-shirt with a ketchup blotch on the chest. Years before it became a routine for every preschool admittance, the first thing the teachers did was check little Mikey for head lice. Deirdre stood watching, embarrassed. Miss Shanita went over his head with the comb and magnifying glass. "He's clean," she said. She glanced at a bruise on Mikey's arm, then smiled sort of weirdly at Deirdre. "We've got him from here."

"Are you excited for your first day at school?" cooed Miss Shanita. Rick smiled, remembering her booming voice and complicated, beaded cornrows. She was the one who loved games and coloring and clapped her hands loudly to keep the rhythm when they sang together. She was a hugger.

Miss Janie – no, Jamie! - by contrast was low-key and soothing, with a fondness for the school's house plants, and for coloring and telling stories. She took Michael by the hand and said, "Richard, can you scoot over and make room? Thank you, honey."

Richard scooted over and patted the ground next to him. Mikey sat down shyly.

Miss Shanita said, "Okay, everyone, we're going around the circle. Remember how everyone made you feel welcome when you got here?

Miss Janie coached them."Now we're gonna all welcome Mikey, and Mikey's gonna say hi to each of us."

Richard had only started school a few weeks before, mightily enjoying the playtime and the stories and making leprechaun traps for St. Patrick's Day. But he remembered feeling just a little shy at the beginning, afraid that nobody would play with him. And circle time, where he had to sit still and criss-cross-applesauce, was sometimes a challenge. He was wiggling now, ready to get up and run around. He grinned at Mikey.

Miss Shanita said, "Richard, would you like to begin?"

"Hi Mikey. I'm Richard."

"Now, Mikey, you say, 'Hi Richard, I'm Mikey."

Mikey's brown eyes filled with tears, and he said nothing. Miss Janie said, "Somebody feeling a little shy today?"

"I want Deirdre."

"Your mommy?"

"Is she gonna come back?" Mikey quavered.

Miss Jamie said, "Of course she will. She'll pick you up at six, just like the other children. You'll see."

Richard said, "It's okay. Mommies always come back."

Mikey pouted. Richard said, "I have ants-on-a-log for snacktime." (Remember, this is before peanut butter was banned from schools because of allergies, and Richard Rodgers was tactless and self-centered, because he was four.)

Mikey's eyes went wide with mingled disgust and admiration. "You eat _ants_?"

The other children started giggling, and Richard cried, "Nooooo, silly! They're raisins!"

Mikey's face went red. "Don't laugh at me."

Richard simply couldn't conceive of someone who had never heard of ants-on-a-log. "You know, with peanut butter?"

A little girl – was it Linda? Lisa. – chimed in. "On celery!"

Mikey glowered at her. "Peanut butter goes on crackers. I had it for dinner last night."

Miss Jamie said gently, "All right, children. Let's move on. Alphonso, can you say hi to Mikey?"

* * *

Rick's mind drifted further forward, paging through Michael's murder board in a blurring, dizzying collection of images. Getting his stolen passport back in the mail, what, five years later? Postmarked Dublin 3, Ireland, but with no name or street number. The typed note: _"We'll meet again."_ It hadn't connected, when he heard the music on Kelly Nieman's flash drive. Buried too deep. No context.

_Blur_. Riding his dented orange bike into Dublin on July 5, making a pay-phone call to a number Rosie had written on his arm with a Sharpie. "You can put your bike on the bus. Meet us on Grafton Street in front of Marks and Spencer." Standing on Grafton Street on a summer evening, surrounded with tony shops and tourist traps and the musical lure of HMV, with Declan's arm around his shoulder, Rosie on his other side, with her arm around his waist. They knew some buskers – a pretty girl with a fiddle, a teen boy tapping out a rhythm with a tambourine and an overturned restaurant bucket, a tall blond man on guitar, and a red-bearded man in his thirties, playing Danny Boy on the accordion. Teary-eyed tourists dropped spare change and small bills into the open fiddle case.

They sang a few traditional songs mixed with pop, a little something for everyone. Declan pulled out a blues harmonica and sang "Bad to the Bone", the girl's fiddle doing a wicked, shivery glissando in the background. Rick asked them if they knew anything by U2, They just rolled their eyes. "Wankers. They haven't done anything good since 'Boy'."

"Oh, come on. They're an institution."

Declan gave him a sharp, cold look. "Don't tell me about institutions," he snapped. He threw some money into the fiddle case; rather more cash than Rick might have expected. "Let's take a walk." He bowed a goodbye to the buskers and led Rick and Rosie away.

Rick spoke to his used, battered bike, figuring it was locked up and he'd be back to get it in a few minutes anyway. He'd bought it at a second-hand place in Limerick, and as they set out he waved to it.

"I'll be back..." he started, in a really bad Terminator impression, and as they walked away, Rosie said, "For that piece of shite?"

Rick shrugged. "It cost me fifty quid." He added:  
"There_ once was a tourist named Rick,  
who picked up a used bike in Limerick*  
the wheels weren't quite round  
and the brakes weren't sound  
and the seat made a bruise on his..." _

"Really? That's the best poem you can think of?" Declan snorted. "You sure you want to be a writer?"

Rick said, "It just needs a little polishing. Also I was drunk when I wrote it."

"I know what you've been polishing, and it ain't your poetry." Declan punched Rick's arm, laughing, and they wrestled a little, rather like puppies. It was so easy.

Rosie chided, "You're both eejits."

Rick didn't even think of the bike again until he was halfway across the Atlantic. For all he knew, the front wheel was still chained to a wrought-iron railing on Grafton Street.

They walked around for a while, and Rick spied what he at first thought was a woman under the streetlight. Then he realized it was a bronze statue of a buxom girl in a low-cut bodice and long skirt, pushing a cart. "Whoa, is that Molly Malone?" The bronze was polished, the color of brown-sugar toffee, and her breasts looked downright lickable, but he restrained himself.

Rosie burst into song. She had a nice voice, slightly burry but sweet, and the few passers-by remaining on a weeknight after 10 glanced at her and smiled as they walked by.

_In Dublin's fair city  
Where girls are so pretty  
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone  
She'd wheel her wheelbarrow  
Through streets broad and narrow  
Cryin' cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o_

Growing bored with it, they meandered on. They stopped into a few pubs and watering holes where Rosie (who was a few years older) knew the owners and was able to get them pints even though they were under-age. Rick started with Guinness, then Murphy's, then at the third pub, switched to hard cider, which went down like soda and had him snockered in short order. Rosie said, "He's cute when he's drunk, in't he, Declan?"

Declan said through a gritty smile, "Oh, he's always cute. Everybody loves our RickyBoy."

Rick half-noticed an under-current of hostility, but wasn't sure if he'd done anything wrong. He slurred, "I love you too. You guys are great."

Rose and Declan exchanged a laugh. "Oh, we are," said Rose. "We are the best _ever_." She took him by the hand and led him out of the pub. They crossed an old bridge, heading northeast, then wound through streets that got progressively dingier, past closed-up shops and crumbling, empty housing. Having been an adventurous kid in New York City, Rick had been on gritty streets like this before, and there was safety in numbers, and (as previously mentioned) he was blotto. So he stumbled along with Declan and Rose, his surroundings barely registering. They walked for at least a half hour, though they sometimes stopped to laugh and make a point. The boys had a literal pissing contest on a wall (for the record, Rick pissed longer, but Declan could write his own name.) They passed a crumbling power station, then came to a long row of old stone Georgian town houses, all with narrow stairs leading up to doors that had once been brightly painted, but were now boarded up or, in some cases, just hanging off their hinges.

Declan was talking. "You know, some day I'm goin' to be rich. Really rich. All these fallin' down houses? I'm gonna buy the whole block on sale, fix 'em up, make them a place worth livin' in."

Rick chuckled. "Trust me, my mom's an actress and she can barely afford rent."

Declan replied, "Ah, acting's just for fun. I'm a hacker."

"What, an axe murderer?"

Declan and Rosie both stopped abruptly. Declan snickered. "No, eejit. I hack into computers."

"Like in War Games? I love that movie."

"Yeah, but no. Business accounts, shite like that. Take a few bucks off the top, and I'm gone before Daddy Warbucks even knows I was there."

"Is that even legal?" Rick's voice squeaked a little.

"Let's just say I'm a fan of Robin Hood," said Declan. This, Rick later realized, meant absolutely nothing, but it allayed his worries all the same. The only person on planet earth who doesn't like Robin Hood is probably Dick Cheney.

The third house in the row – number 18, or maybe it was 118 and one of the numbers had fallen off – had an old blue oak door, but it was nailed shut. Faint candlelight gleamed around the front window, breaching gaps where old newspaper had been taped as a blind. Declan led them around to the side. Rick, who hadn't been a boy scout but dearly loved to Be Prepared, produced a pocket flashlight from his backpack. Giggling, they clambered down through the broken basement window, then scrambled carefully up rotting stairs. They passed through the shambling kitchen, littered with smashed furniture. Tucked into a huge, ancient fireplace cove was a rusty old AGA cookstove that, on the U.S. Antique market, would likely fetch $2000. There was laughter and faint music in the side parlor. It smelled of hash and cigarettes, incense and candles and spilled booze. He looked forward, through the building to the inside of the blue door. It was half-swamped with a tsunami of fast-food trash, plastic bags, empty bottles, and cans. Something small moved amongst the rubble – likely a rat. Rick kept his mouth shut, not wanting to seem uncool.

Declan's friends looked up at Rick as he stumbled in. "Haha!" one of them said. She was a small, puffy, ragged woman of thirty or so, with short, spiky dark hair and very few teeth. "Fresh meat?"

Rick felt some alarm seep up through the booze in his system. Rosie just laughed. "Nah, he's just here for some fun," she said. She pulled him onto an old futon couch that had probably been wrestled out of a dumpster. The frame was held together with duct tape and a splint; the mattress was losing its stuffing, moldy, and also held together with duct tape. It was covered with a grotty white sheet printed with cartoon ladybugs and daisies. Rick looked over at Declan anxiously. He felt torn between kissing a reasonably pretty and obviously willing girl, and possibly messing up whatever she and Declan might have between them. Declan waved them along. "Eh, you kids. Just have her home before midnight. She turns into a gremlin."

Rick said, "Oh, I love that movie..."

Rosie snickered and threw an empty can at Declan. "Can you lads shut up about feckin' movies for five seconds? It's like you're separated at birth." She straddled Rick's lap, tangled her fingers in his shaggy mullet haircut, and started making out with him. And that was when the drugs came out.

•

The story as Castle told it in _"In a Hail of Bullets"_ had not been exactly truthful. He hadn't mentioned Rosie trying to get into his pants when he was nearly senseless. In fact the sensations had all been so blunted, it was still no more than a blur. He was certain he'd been in no shape for sex, and for that, he was profoundly grateful. He had named the book's protagonist – himself – _Michael_, of all things! Damn twin effect. And of course Rosie had taken the name Kelly for her character, Kelly Nieman. That wasn't exactly a coincidence. Declan he hadn't renamed. Because Declan seemed like the one who had most betrayed him, and he was angry.

Castle also hadn't mentioned the part about throwing up in Molly Malone's whellbarrow. In his shock and disorientation, he told himself he was looking for his bike, and he vaguely remembered that Molly's statue was at the end of Grafton Street. He'd staggered alone out of the old house and found his way over a mile back, retracing his steps in the predawn darkness, through progressively less-shabby streets, to find (and vomit on) something familiar. The gardai had found him and taken him to hospital. He'd never bothered to go back and look for the bike. He'd declined to press charges, never sought out the squat house, nor Declan Connor, nor Rosie. In his youth, Castle had thought writing about it, making that horrible incident the catalyst for the chain of events in his first published novel, would be enough. Now he knew better, knew the regret. _"You should have killed him when you had the chance."_ Was that what Kelly Nieman had meant? Was Rick to blame for all the murders they committed after he left Ireland? He shuddered, the guilt a visceral pain.

Rick's mind dialed down into sleep. Michael had disappeared. Petros and Mephistopheles were playing Battleship. Mephistopheles was wearing an odd helmet contraption between his horns, with an assortment of small mirrors on extendable arms and goosenecks, and suspended from little cranes. Meph was trying to extend the mirrors out to the other side of the Battleship board to guess Petros' ships' positioning. Petros was completely aware of the subterfuge, and didn't seem to care in the slightest. He grinned. "Dublin 3."

"You asshole!" gritted Meph. "You sunk my battleship!" The board exploded in a fountain of water, and blasted the demon away like a fire hydrant. He punched a snarling hole in a cloud and was gone.

* * *

Castle rolled over and looked at the laptop, perched on the pillow next to him. Kate had talked him through a guided meditation she'd learned from Dr. Burke. Then, assuming he was asleep, she'd logged off. He smiled dreamily at the empty skype window, then went to the desktop screen. 3XK's flash drive lurked there in the menu. He double-clicked on it, and the icon wiggled "Password Protected."

He sighed, frustrated, and steeled himself for another go. Seven characters. His left-hand fingers pecked in, _"Dublin3"_

"_Sorry. Please try again." _

"_HiRicky"_.

"_Sorry. Please try again."_

"_HiMikey_"

His desktop chimed softly. _"Accessing files."  
_

* * *

•

**July 1, 3 pm, Tullow Hotel Lobby, Ireland**

_Text from Commander •••••••• to Martha Rodgers:_

_•: Have made some progress, but haven't acquired target._  
_M: Why didn't you get back to me earlier?_  
_•: Irish intelligence on our tail. Actually not an oxymoron.  
M: Why?_  
_•: Oh, you know, professional curiosity. No big deal._  
_M: Maybe you should invite them up for coffee._  
_•: Coffee here is worse than yours &amp; they can't drink booze OTJ_  
_M: So it hasn't improved in 30 years. Tea, then._  
_•: Excuse me, Irish Intelligence, if you'd like to chat, meet me at the hotel lobby this afternoon at 3.  
M: Why are you tweeting that to me?_  
_•: Texting not tweeting, my dear.  
1) I don't have a direct line to them 2) you're a witness if we go missing._

_M: Oh, GREAT._


	38. Chapter 38

**Too Soon Chapter 38**

**The Saint, The Lady, and/or the Tiger**

_From The Princess Bride:  
__Vizzini:__ Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet, because he would know that only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I am not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But you must have known I was not a great fool, you would have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.  
Man in Black: You've made your decision then?  
Vizzini: Not remotely. Because iocane comes from Australia, as everyone knows, and Australia is entirely peopled with criminals, and criminals are used to having people not trust them, as you are not trusted by me, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.  
Man in Black: Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.  
Vizzini: Wait till I get going! Now, where was I? _

**Outside** **Schwarzenberg, Germany, March 1969**

Little Greta Schirrmacher hurried along behind her brother Hans, sticking close to the houses, dodging behind trees. But he never looked back. Hans was a big, tough boy who liked to run things his way. Four years old, he was used to being too fast for her, and ccustomed to their mother's watchful eye, keeping Greta in check. But now she was ten, and he was fourteen, Mother had a job down in the valley, and Greta was sick and tired of being left behind.

At the edge of the village she ducked down behind a hedge for a while, watching as he crossed the ramshackle stone bridge across the stream. On the other side was something of a ghost town: the old village, bombed out in the big war, one pile of rubble after another. The work crews that had rebuilt Germany had been slow to arrive at this isolated alpen town. And when the crews quit for the night and drove off en masse to stay in a hotel, the local boys came out, as boys will do, to comb the ruins, looking for whatever fun or interesting or macabre item they might find. Hans had finished his homework, Mother wouldn't be home from the city to cook dinner for an hour yet. It was cold, just after the spring thaw, and rain threatened. Greta sweated underneath her thick wool coat, her short legs pumping as her elder brother rounded a curve, out of sight of the bridge. She stopped and ducked next to a ruined stone building, hearing her brother call out.

She heard her brother's voice boom out. It had changed recently, and he used it at every opportunity. "Hey. Arne!"

Greta had a crush on Arne, who made the temptation to tag along even more irresistible. Arne was a bit smaller than Hans and much more bookish, with an impish sense of humor. Sometimes he teased Greta pitilessly, sometimes he was kind, and she could never tell which it was going to be, so she loved and feared him in equal measure. She crept close, listening to the boys chat as they tossed bricks, breaking them just for the hell of it.

Arne said, "I found a way into the church."

"No, really? When?"

"I sneaked Papa's flashlight and came down last night. The floor's rotten, but part of it still holds up. We might be able to find some real loot."

Hans laughed. "Well, do you have the flashlight now?"

"Yes..."

"Why didn't you go in?"

"I was waiting for you."

Hans laughed again, the kind of laugh he sometimes directed at Greta before he hit her, or held her down and tickled her until she peed. Greta clenched a small fist. Hans said, "Scared, huh."

"No..."

"Give me the flashlight. I'll go in if you're too white-livered."

Greta heard the boys walking away, and she followed discreetly. The old Gothic church loomed at the top of a rise. Its bell towers had collapsed decades before, the stained glass windows had all been blown out, the buttresses smashed and the stone walls crumbled. The boys made their way through the crazily leaning headstones of the churchyard, then back around to the nave at the north side. The oak timbers of the side door frame were partly splintered, yet they held up a short section of wall. The boys ducked and crept inside. Greta was afraid that if she followed too closely, they'd see her. But follow she did.

She was just putting her head through the doorway. Hans was reading an inscription etched into a stone tile on the floor, something about a saint's relics and his blessings on the church. Arne snickered and threw a fragment of stone across the ruin. "That blessing held up well, didn't it?"

Hans cried out as the floor beneath him gave way, and he fell in a shower of slabs and timber. Arne pulled back instinctively, head over his arms, until the dust settled a bit. Both Arne and Greta heard Hans moaning. Greta crawled into the collapsed church, calling "Hans! Hans!"

From a few feet away, perched on a slab before a gaping hole, Arne stared at Greta. His face was a pale smear in the twilight. They were both crying and coated with dust. Arne coughed, then rasped, "Don't move, Greta."

"Hans is down there!"

"Greta, the floor – it's all rotten under the stone. There's nothing holding you up."

Greta peered into the shadows. "I can see wood down there. Rooms."

Hans was crying now, and then his thin cries rose to a scream. "Get me out. Get me out of here! My legs... agh!"

Arne shifted his weight, and the slab he crouched on swayed like a bobblehead doll. Greta whimpered, and crawled toward her brother's voice. "Hans? Can you hear..."

There was a crack. The support beams for both Greta's slab and Arne's gave way, and she felt herself falling.

When Greta awoke, it was dark, and she was trapped in the labyrinth of cells underneath the church. The little girl sat up, pained and dizzy. She saw her brother lying face-down, half-covered by a slab of stone the size of a twin bed. A pool of blood had run out of his mouth and started to congeal, black around the edges. Both of his hands were outstretched, like Superman flying. Near his right was the flashlight. Hans looked like her little dog, Fritzi, when he'd been run over by a car. No life in him. She grabbed the flashlight, and mercifully it switched on, although the light was flickery and faint. The beam of light swept over Arne, whose upper body was hidden under another slab, smashed altogether. She thought, oddly, "Well. You make nearly a whole boy between you." She wasn't afraid, somehow, just numb. But she called out, anyway, even though she knew no one was around. "Help! Is somebody there?" Not even an echo answered her.

The slabs had fallen in at an angle too steep for her to climb. She supposed there were steps somewhere, but the terrain was a riot of broken walls and fallen timbers. She kept exploring, and found a hole not much taller than she was. The flashlight beam revealed a turn, perhaps a passageway. She went around the corner, and there was the Saint.

She stared, half-horrified, half enchanted. The Saint's body had been there, walled up beneath the church, for centuries. Greta read but did not understand the Latin inscription on a little stone wall plaque:

"_**Sancte Margarete ad Sacrum Montem **_

_**Liberi patroni perditaque"**_

Saint Margaret of the Sacred Mountain – Patron of Lost Children – had died 573 years before at the age of twelve. She had been an orphan, a devout child who had been put to work in the local mines. And she had been a fiercely intelligent, observant person who in another culture might have been an astronaut, or a detective. It was she who noticed a cracking beam. She who cried out before the beam collapsed and herded the other child miners to safety. She who crawled through a tiny hole and, stone by stone, rescued a knot of terrified survivors by lifting a beam three times her own weight – a miracle if ever there was one. She who collapsed and died, her lungs full of black dust, clutching a gold nugget the size of a goose egg.

She'd made a lovely corpse. The grateful (and now rich) locals preserved her body in a beautiful effigy of wax with sapphire blue eyes, veiled her in fine white linen, and dressed her in the finest silks and velvets money could buy. They festooned her in jeweled brooches and silver chains. They made yearly offerings on her death day, which became her feast day, and prayed to her when the mines filled with poison gas, or when a vein played out, or when raiders came from over the hills to plunder and kill. And when the Calvinist revolution came, centuries later, the faithful knew it was time to hide her away, safe, with only a few holding onto her worship and memory. Eventually that faded away as well, and when the church rector died during the bombing, little Saint Margaret was erased from history.

Greta did not realize at the time that she had been named for her. All Greta saw was a beautiful nightmare. A sleeping princess, her waxen face half-hidden beneath a dusty, rotting veil, her blue eyes winking in the dim flashlight's beam. Her ribs, interwoven with pearl strands and a heart of garnets and gold. Her delicate hands, encased in gloves of lace and gold wire. Her tiny white teeth, shining faintly behind the fragile, tinted pink wax of her rosebud lips. Her flaxen wig and her tiara of diamonds. Her feet, no longer trudging the stony mine roads, bound in kidskin slippers worked with golden flowers. In Greta's eyes she was a beautiful, enchanted, terrifying doll, and as the flashlight beam grew weaker and weaker, the little saint's deathly aspects became less apparent, and her doll-like beauty more so.

It started to rain when the last ray of sunlight left the mountains. Greta sat miserably in the alcove with the little saint, talking to her, and the little saint, who had nothing else to do, talked back, her voice like rainwater on pebbles, sweet and soothing. It was cold, but Greta wasn't afraid any more.

The saint told her all kinds of things. "Nobody hurts you when they're dead. Everyone loves you when you die. And you get to have the loveliest parties. Nobody's mean anymore. When you die, you get to see everyone you love. So, you see Greta, death is a wonderful thing. Heaven is wonderful. Someday, everyone will go there. Hans and Arne will be there, and your papa, and you, too. With me. And we'll have cake." The flashlight faded away, the rain grew heavier, the children's footprint on the bridge and in the churchyard were washed away before their parents even knew they were missing.

Searchers found them shortly after dawn the next morning. They looked down at the two dead boys, half buried in rubble, and Arne's father jumped down into the pit, roaring in grief, trying in vain to pull the slab away from his dead son's body. Greta emerged from the tunnel then, silently, wearing a crown, covered with necklaces and bracelets, carrying a little scepter of mother-of-pearl and gold, topped with an enameled gold pomegranate. She was filthy and bloody, but utterly calm, peaceful even. Beatific.

Other rescuers jumped down and handed her out of the church basement, and her mother rushed to her, crushing her into desperate arms, weeping, overwhelmed with finding one child dead, the other alive. Greta, on the other hand, said nothing but, "Hello, mother."

Greta was a very, very special girl.

•

**June 25, 2014, 2818 Rackham Road, Dublin 3, Ireland**

Greta Schirrmacher – aka Nita Krystow – and known to Interpol only as "The Crafter" - was sewing a new dress for Tiffany Ross when she heard the girl screaming. Greta jumped up as well as she could, with her sore hip and all, and shuffled to the base of the stairs. "Mr. Murphy?" she called.

"Got it," he answered down. He'd been in his bedroom, most likely playing the concertina along with an old Clancy Brothers album. She didn't really care. After forty years together, they were no longer lovers, and lived simply as housemates. Partners, rather, with a common – or rather, complimentary – hobby. She heard his fast, heavy tread up the attic stairs, the jingle of the key, the door opening, the screams growing louder. A moment later, Tiffany's cat came streaking down the stairs. Greta tried to intercept it, and it dodged past her and slunk into the kitchen, no doubt scenting outside air at the back door frame. She shrugged it off. All the windows and doors were locked. It had nowhere to go. Neither did Tiffany, for that matter.

Greta came huffing up the stairs, but it was rather slow going. She frowned, hearing Murphy's angry rumble, and Tiffany's hysterical mix of talk and sobbing: "They're, they're all dead, what are they, are they people? What did you do to them? Why would you... what, are they real?"

Murphy said, "If you'd kindly shut your trap, I'll explain everythin'."

Tiffany looked frantically around the attic. When Murphy switched on the light, a thousand little white christmas lights blazed. It was weirdly festive. For lack of a better word, there were dioramas. Maybe altars. Life-size dolls, but not dolls: bodies. Bones, covered with wax, their proportions a little too lifelike but their execution crude. There was a "doll" family: a father in a suit, a mother in an apron with a beehive hairdo, an older sister in a lovely red woolen coat, and a little brother in liederhosen. They sat at a dining table saying grace over their dinner. And under the table, waiting for scraps, sat the wired bones of a little dog covered in fake fur.

On the other side of the attic was a sort of angel. Her wings, four feet wide, were insanely ornate, with jewels and beads draped from their spread. Her dress was white satin and velveteen, and almost every inch was encrusted with bottle caps, cheap mardi gras beads, hundreds of salvaged bits of second hand jewelry, buttons, birthday party ribbon... as if Bob Mackie had killed Cher and given an insane twelve-year-old access to a glue gun, a charnel house, and a New Orleans dumpster the day after Mardi Gras. And the angel was housed in a sort of niche, like nothing Tiffany had ever seen. But Richard Castle would have recognized the niche's construction from that Weird Tours of Europe sojourn into the Ossuary at Kutná Hora: a structure made of of human bones, stacked like Lincoln Logs of death. The rest of the attic walls were lined with translucent storage bins, the kind you can buy at any hardware store. Some were labeled "Fabric" "Wigs &amp; Scalps" "Feathers" or "Beads". Some were labeled with contents such as

"_Adult Male Femurs" or _

"_Teen Girl, 5'3""._

Most of the bones were human, but Tiffany could see other bodies as well, cats, dogs, maybe a rabbit or two. Tiffany suddenly realized that the faint musty, sticky smell in the air – that Miss Krystow had faithfully treated daily with Breeze-A-Way-Spray – was that of death and formaldehyde. She should have known. She'd dissected a few animals at vet assistant school.

Panic fueled her. She tried to push past Murphy. "Let me outta here." He grabbed her arm, and she was surprised – for an old guy, he was strong. She couldn't stop talking. "What is this? What happened to these people? Why -" She stopped. Miss Krystow was standing in the doorway now, leaning against the frame, catching her breath. "This guys' crazy," said Tiffany, and then to Murphy, "Let me go. You're hurting me."

Miss Krystow was smiling. "Don't bruise her, Murphy. It takes the price down."

Tiffany stopped. "_Price_?"

Murphy said, "The meat."

"Meat?" Tiffany broke out in a sweat.

"There's a market for specialty meats," said Miss Krystow with a smile. "In Japan, you can get $1200 a pound. In yen, of course. On the continent, it's gone as high as 1800 Euros."

Tiffany squeaked, "Wha?"

"We sell it as specialty beef. Better than Kobe. Better than Wagyu," Murphy said. He spanked Tiffany lightly on the ass. "They like it well marbled."

"He's the butcher," Krystow added. "And I'm the artist."

Tiffany let out a high-pitched whimper and shrank back. Murphy tripped her, she fell, and he hauled her by the hair and one arm, back into the little room. He shoved her back, and slammed the door on her hand when she tried to block it. She screamed behind the door, pounding. He locked it, then took a chair and hooked it under the doorknob for good measure.

Krystow shook her head. "Tch. I hear adrenaline toughens the meat. Poor little lamb."

Murphy was not so sentimental. "So, do you think we should wait any longer for your man, or should we just kill her now and get her shipped out?"

"Shh. You'll send her into a tizzy." Greta – Miss Kristow – backed out of the attic and pointed down the stairs. Murphy followed her out and locked the attic door.

Knees creaking, they navigated the stairs with care. Murphy said, "She must weigh nearly thirteen stone. I'm not sure I can get her down the stairs as it is, and if you keep feeding her..."

"Could you drug her and lower her down somehow?"

"Drugs make the meat taste funny. You remember. I hate taking refunds."

"Now, I'm still not sure it wasn't the artificial sweeteners. That's the last time we veer from organic feed, agreed?"

"Yeah, agreed. Anyway, can I just haul her down to the basement and slaughter her tomorrow?"

"We're supposed to wait for Michael until July the Fourth. That's the agreement."

Murphy scowled nervously and paused to rub his knee. "What if he's not comin'? Nobody's heard a damn word from Michael, and you saw Rosie on the news as well as me, getting' arrested."

"Did you call Grossmann again?"

"Yeah, he kept me on the phone blatherin' for a couple minutes about nothin'. I think the feds have nabbed him."

Krystow stopped. "What, you were being traced?"

"I hung up. Haven't taken any more calls from him."

"Well, why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to worry you. Your blood pressure and all..."

She smiled back at him, up the stairs. He could be a bastard, but he had moments of surprising sweetness. "You can be such a schwachkopf!"

He gave her a cheeky smile as they came to the bottom of the stairs. "They're in the U.S. It's not like they can find us. What's it been, twenty years since we moved in here? Not even that bitch Rosie knows where we are."

"Eighteen. Speaking of that, the rent is due in a few days."

He nodded. "Yeah, I'll mail it in. Still can't believe Michael charges us rent after all we've done for him."

She shrugged. "Business is business."

•

Castle sat straight up as the folder icon opened into a new finder window. His jetlag-induced fatigue disappeared.

"Oh, shit," he whispered. "_Shit_."

There were two folders in the window. The first one was titled "The Lady"; the second, "Or the Tiger?"

His phone rang. It was Kate. "Is there anything on the drive?"

Rick nodded, although of course she couldn't see him. "Yeah." He read off the folder titles.

She said, "The Lady or the Tiger. The thing with the barbarian queen and the doors?"

"Yeah. Dilemmas. Choices. One gets you killed, the other gets you laid, but the barbarian princess is kind of a vengeful twit."

Three thousand miles away, his wife felt the hackles raise on teh back of her neck. "Crap. Look, Castle, don't open the folders alone."

"Why?"

"Do you have any idea what you're gonna see?"

He sighed. "Could be anything. Ladies and tigers?"

"You wish."

"Video of us... or snuff like what they were going to do to Elise..."

"Sweetheart, please. Don't do it alone. You need someone to have your back. I don't want you going off like a loose cannon without support."

"What, you don't trust me?"

"Oh, Rick." She sighed. "Yes. Eminently. With my life and my heart and my soul. But Michael knew you almost as well as I do, at least on the surface. And if anything pushes your buttons, it's having your self-confidence undermined. He _will _ mess with your head, just because he can."

Rick sighed. "You're right. I'll call the boys back up. They've gone for a run with Mo and Betsy."

"You promise to wait?"

"Yeah." He sighed. "God, I wish you were here."

"I know, Babe. I know. But I'm working this from my own side. I've had Grossmann call that number a few times. It's a burner, was issued in Germany, and we can't get a location, but someone actually picked it up the other day. We had an analyst give it a listen. He's narrowed it to an older man with a North Dublin accent."

"How can they tell?"

"It's the way they pronounce their Ts and Ds. It's soft."

"Could be faked," Rick said. "On the other hand, North Dublin's next on the list. So it's a possibility." He paused a moment. "Hey, Kate, have you heard anything from Dr. Patel?"

"No," Kate said, "Should I have?"

"No. Probably not. I just wonder if there's been any change. With Nieman." He felt a bitter taste in his mouth, just thinking of her.

"Why don't I give her a call, and you have the boys hang out while you check out the folders. We'll check in. Okay?"

"Okay, _Wife_." He said it with a smile. With longing.

"I love that. _Husband_. Now, go to it. I'll be waiting."

Kate hung up, her heart breaking that she couldn't be with him when he really needed her. Her stomach rumbled and she nibbled on some cheese-and-crackers. She looked down at her tummy and patted it gently. "At least one of us feels better," she smiled.


	39. Chapter 39

**Note- sorry for the long wait between chapters. Having my darling family home for the holidays,  
and then getting sick and having my brain turn to jelly, put a cramp in my writing.  
This chapter is fairly low-key. Think of it as the calm before the storm. **

**Too Soon Chapter 39 – Wish You Were Here**

_How I wish, how I wish you were here.  
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,  
Running over the same old ground.  
What have we found?  
The same old fears.  
Wish you were here. - Pink Floyd_

* * *

•

Located in Kilmacanoge, south of Dublin in the Wicklow foothills, the Huntsman's Arms is a small hotel ("intimate" is the word on the web site) accommodating no more than fifty guests at a time. It's a bit under 200 years old ("pedigreed") with working stables for the horsey gentry, a banquet room, conference rooms, parlors, a pub with a delightful little "snug" seat, and a central courtyard with a gorgeous vegetable and herb garden that services the kitchen. The fresh peas with local butter... oh, God. Go there in spring. Tell them I sent you. Smuggle some home for me.

Down in the lobby, Jackson Hunt was talking with the two Irish Intelligence agents. Agent Ambreen Gashkouri was a first-generation Pakistani immigrant. She was tall and pretty, with a serious, kind face. Agent Barry Rourke was sandy-haired, sturdy, freckled, middle-aged, and tired-looking (he had seven kids - four of them teenagers). After a brief interval, another gentleman arrived, Special Agent John Halloran, Retired. Halloran was shiny-bald and built like a boxer, with a tobacco-yellowed goatee and long, pink nose. Hunt had ordered tea before inviting them all to sit with him. The red-haired waitress came with a tea tray, and Hunt said, "We're expecting several more people; any chance we can move to a conference room?

She nodded. "I'll get the concierge." Hunt paid her in cash and said, "Keep the change." He felt a sudden pang: he missed Alexis. The waitress' eyes went wide at the large bill he'd handed her (most Europeans don't tip, and few Americans tip like Jackson Hunt and his son). Halloran looked at her as if she'd sold state secrets to the Soviets. She scurried away.

Rourke harrumphed a little. "Commander. As you may have guessed, we have been trailin' your arse all over Ireland. Now, before I make a big stink about it, would you like to explain yourself?"

Hunt shrugged. "I don't know. How much do you like working with Interpol?"

Rourke looked around and said quietly, "Not so much. Why do you ask?"

Halloran poured himself some tea, adding milk. He sipped at it and scowled. "They never get the goddamn water hot enough. Bloody restaurants."

Hunt got a text from Rick: _"I'm in. Need your eyes on this when I open up file." _

He replied, _"Get dressed for company &amp; come down. Bring laptop. Tea room." _

Agent Gashkouri's bright eyes fixed on Jackson's. "What does Interpol have to do with it?"

Halloran mumbled, "Bloody Interpol."

Hunt looked around the circle. "This needs to stay confidential. Richard Castle's my son. After this mission, I'm going to be retiring, and I'll no longer have the power to help him that I do now. I have some mistakes to repair."

"But that's an abuse of your position, Commander," said Halloran.

A woman's voice spoke behind him. "Not so much, actually." It was Teresa Beckett, speaking in an impeccable British Received accent – think Margaret Thatcher. When she arched an eyebrow in question as to who was in charge, Hunt indicated Rourke. She was elegant as usual in a pantsuit and long silk scarf that set off her green eyes. There was no indication that she'd taken a redeye from New York, a helicopter, and a rented sports-car to get there in hope she could keep Rick's investigation moving before the locals clamped down and brought Interpol in. She and Hunt exchanged a brief, professional smile.

Teresa Beckett briefly held up an ID badge to Rourke, who didn't question it. "Terry Soames, Special Investigations, Interpol." She pulled a dossier from her tailored leather messenger bag and set it on the table. Rourke picked it up and thumbed through it. He whistled softly through his teeth, tapped the file, and showed it to Gashkouri. "That's from the U.S. State Department. Signed by Senator Wong."

Halloran looked skeptical. "Why circumvent the usual routes?"

Teresa said, "We're on the trail of a kidnapped American girl. How familiar are you with the Richard Castle scandal?"

"About the crash? And his implication in the kidnappings?" Gashkouri nodded eagerly. "I am his biggest fan. That's why I was assigned to assist Agent Rourke."

"So you've heard about the three missing girls."

Halloran said darkly, "Yeah. In our neck of the woods, we like to tell our _suspects_ 'Don't Leave Town'."

"Castle's not a suspect."

Halloran insisted, "It's a conspiracy, innit? How do you know he's not takin' you all for a ride?" He smiled bitterly. "You wouldn't believe the lengths these bastards will go to for a thrill."

At this point, the Prime Suspect came down. He didn't look so prime. He looked exhausted and worried, unshaven and one button was done wrong on his shirt. His right wrist was in a high-tech cast; he handed the laptop off to Hunt, then on introduction, shook left hands all around with a murmured apology for keeping them waiting.

At hearing all their titles, his worry clearly grew.

Teresa introduced herself to him as an agent. Momentarily puzzled, Rick threw her his most charming smile. "Agent... Soames? I'm sorry, you seem familiar. Have we met?"

"Not that I can remember, Mr. Castle. But I'm acquainted with Senator Wong. Your wife had asked his assistance."

Rick nodded. "Right. Thank you, Agent Soames."

The concierge greeted them at this point, and led them to a side conference room. Hunt said, "We have three friends out on a run: Detectives Esposito, Ryan, and Atta. Please send them in when they arrive."

The concierge sniffed. Rick half expected him to twirl his mustache. "And the dog?"

"The dog too," Castle said. "She's a service animal."

"Of course," said the concierge, pointedly refraining from sighing until his ass had left the room.

They all sat at the large, polished table; the waitress put out more tea and set out pitchers of water as well.

Gashkouri looked at Castle with stars in her eyes. "I cannot believe that anyone would suspect you," she said.

Castle looked slightly less depressed. "Thanks."

She turned to the others. "He has solved too many murders to think he could get away with one of his own." She looked indignant at the very idea. Halloran rolled his eyes. Rourke was withholding judgment.

Hunt nodded. "Richard Castle was instrumental in finding two of the girls alive. They're in protective custody, but we're still looking for the third girl. The web of conspiracy around this is huge and far-reaching, and it goes back decades."

Castle addressed Halloran directly. "You've heard of a serial killer known as the Countryside Ripper." It wasn't a question.

Halloran dropped his teacup. It bumped on the Persian carpet and sloshed onto his shoes, but didn't break. "I looked for that bastard for fifteen years."

"And you found him?"

Halloran shook his head bitterly. "Always one step ahead of us. We didn't have the resources. My superiors were convinced he was a Traveler, but I'm still dead-sure he was someone hiding behind a cloak of respectability."

Theresa said, "Recent testimony implicates a man named Dr. John O'Shaunessy."

Halloran scowled, thinking back. "He was found dead in what, 1987? Murder-suicide. A weird one – he cut his daughter to ribbons, then himself."

Castle went white. This was new. "Rose O'Shaunessy?"

"Yes. His daughter, Rose. We found a lot of blood and hair – even a few shreds of her skin - but her body was never found."

Castle nodded, almost relieved. "That's because there wasn't one. She's still alive."

Halloran spluttered. "You're fecking kiddin' me."

"I'm dead serious," Castle said. "O'Shaunessy taught his daughter everything he knew, and when she found someone to take his place, they killed him together."

"Last man standing." The old man's watery blue eyes flickered. "Which is why his style of murders continued even after O'Shaunessy himself was dead." He put his elbows on the table, resting his forehead in his hands. "I cannot fathom how I didn't see it."

Castle said, "There's so much more." He swallowed. "And unless you allow us to continue with this mission, the information will be withheld from Irish authorities."

Rourke scowled. "What do you mean by that?"

"I need the leverage to bring Tiffany Ross home unimpeded."

"Tiffany Ross?" Rourke was sincerely puzzled.

Gashkouri said, "She's the third girl. She's in Ireland?"

Castle nodded. "I have reason to believe so."

"Well, why didn't you..."

"Rose O'Shaunessy is in a psych ward in New York. She gave me details on over forty murders committed by herself and a network of serial killers spanning the Western hemisphere and Europe, particularly Ireland, Britain, and Provence. The chief amongst those – and also her lover - was a man known to authorities as Jerry Tyson..."

Gashkouri gasped. "3XK?"

"You know of him?"

Rourke said, "In case you hadn't noticed, she's a fan. I'm... unfamiliar with some of the details of your exploits."

Ryan, Esposito, Mo, and Betsy arrived, smelling of fresh outside air, sweat, and damp dog. Brief introductions were made (Ryan, and Esposito picking up immediately on Teresa's ruse, Mo ignorant of Teresa's relationship to Kate. Of course, Betsy knew _exactly_ what their relationship was, and her tail went crazy, but she knew the rest of her was supposed to behave, so she just sat on it to calm it down.) Jackson ordered more refreshments. Betsy slunk under the table and sat on Pillow Case Rick's feet. He smelled anxious, poor boy. Under the table she gave him her silky ears, and he absently stroked them for comfort.

Gashkouri rolled her eyes apologetically. "I am no fan of 3XK's. The man is more twisted than a handful of barbed wire."

Castle raised an eyebrow. "You write?"

"A little," she smiled shyly. She concluded "3XK is your nemesis. Was he behind the latest kidnappings? I noticed all the victims are young and blonde."

Castle nodded. "Good guess." He flipped open the laptop, thinking long and hard about what he was about to do. "Look," he said. "3XK was also known as Michael McGowran. I have no doubt that _doesn't_ ring a bell."

The three Irish agents nodded, "Never heard of him,"

Hunt said, "Michael was good at flying under the radar. He was my son. And Rick's brother."

Esposito said, "Whoa. You're Castle's dad?"

Ryan said, "Always the last to know." Although he'd figured it out weeks before.

Rick opened his laptop and keyed in "_HiMikey_" to activate the flash drive. He showed everyone 3XK's video, then the window with the two folders, and explained that each folder held its perils.

"So this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to forget all about the Vizzini logic puzzle..."

"That's inconceivable!" quipped Esposito.

Castle flashed Espo a quick smile "...and just go for it."

Ryans eyebrows quirked. "What happens if you choose wrong? He's kind of an expert in fuckery."

Rick shrugged. "If the laptop explodes, tell Kate I love her." Everyone leaned nervously back in their chairs. "Just kidding. Hunt tested the flash drive for booby traps,

Hunt nodded. "Worst it will likely do is either give Castle's laptop a virus or erase all its own files."

Rick continued. "I like ladies better than tigers. I almost got eaten by a tiger once. So screw that." He double-clicked on The Lady and sighed with relief, then turned the laptop so that everyone could at least guess what was on the screen.

_The Lady_ folder opened, revealing three documents.

_Read_me (98K) May 15, 2014_

_Watch_me (4MB) May 28, 2014_

_Bite_me (12MB) April 25, 2014_

He double-clicked "_Read me_" first.

_**Last Will and Testament, Michael McGowran**_

_**15 May, 2014**_

_In the event of my death, and being of sound mind, I, Michael Allen McGowran, hereby entrust my estate to the execution of my attorney, Jack Daffney of #10 Horrocks Terrace, Dublin 4, Ireland; phone 353-555-81465._

To my wife, Rose O'Shaunessy McGowran, I leave 50% of my net holdings and accounts at seven different banks in three different countries. I also leave Rose the entirety of my real estate holdings in Ireland, and 100% of my shares in IntellEyeNet Search LLC. That should keep her going for a while.

_To my estranged brother, Richard Edgar Alexander Rodgers Castle, I leave 100% of my real estate holdings in the United States of America and in Argentina and Venezuela. Have fun with that, RickyBoy. I also leave my film production company, Better Twin, and all its holdings in the United States and Ireland, including syndication rights for the European version of Dark Knights of Palladia and the soon-to-be-released porn title, Nookie Hott." _

At that, Teresa made a discreet snort of disgust, and Rick's eyes widened. He paused the recording. "So 3XK was dabbling as a producer even back in his teens. I wonder how he finagled the negotiations for Dark Knights."

Gashkouri made some notes on her laptop, and Ryan handed her his card, making a little "_text me_" motion. She smiled and nodded. Esposito handed her his card as well, along with an ingratiating grin. She blushed a little.

"_To my birth mother, Martha Jane Rodgers, I leave 25% of my net holdings and bank accounts and retirement funds, and my scrapbook documenting her illustrious career, which can be found on the third floor at my South Bronx offices, as listed on Page 3 of this will._

_To my niece, Alexis Castle, I also leave 25% of my bank accounts and retirement funds, and my harmonica._

_To my adoptive grandmother, Gladys McGowran, I leave a trust fund to provide for her needs at Sunnyside Nursing home, Rathdrum, Ireland, until the time of her natural death. Any remaining funds can be donated to the Friends of the New York Library." _

_Witnessed this 15__th__ day of May, 2014, Dublin Ireland..."_

Rick paged through the itemization of the properties, with the other officers leading close in. Jackson said, "That's gotta be worth at least twenty million bucks."

Rick felt sick. "I don't want a penny of it."

Teresa said, "I really wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Castle. No doubt the Victims' Reparations Fund will take up most if not all of it. The fun part will be the lawsuits."

Rick nodded. "Quite the legacy." He looked around the room at the solemn faces, then as the enormity of it all hit him, he squeezed his eyes shut a moment. His heart hammered, and he tried to calm his breathing, break the fight or flight response down to a manageable level. Under the table, Betsy groaned and thumped her tail against the floor. He had a wild thought: run out of the room. Steal a car. Get back to New York somehow. Get back to Kate, and disappear together forever.

Ryan said, "You okay, man?"

"No. But thanks for asking." He drew a breath. "Just went to my happy place for a second."

"Doesn't look so happy," said Esposito.

Rick double-clicked on _Watch_me_, the mp4 file.

Michael was sitting in a cozy-looking kitchen full of knicknacks. He stared into the camera, his eyes intense despite the swelling around them. He was fresh from some plastic surgery, so his face was puffy, and there was bruising around his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

Halloran poured himself more tea. His hand was shaking. He said, "Never thought to see that face again."

Rick stopped the recording. "You knew him?"

"Knew him?"

Rick nodded. "That's 3XK. Michael McGowran. He's dead."

"Heh." Halloran grunted. He wiped his mouth. "He was a murder witness. Said he was a computer programmer. Dabbled in real estate investment... bought a pile of worthless property when the Celtic Tiger imploded. Flipped some of it, fixed some of it up, but left a lot of places derelict. Bit of a slumlord."

"Celtic Tiger?" said Esposito.

Rourke explained. "We had a boom: technology companies sprung up like toadstools, people got over their heads in credit, and when the toadstools were kicked over... they were rotten underneath."

Esposito and Ryan exchanged a glance.

Ryan reminded Halloran: "You said McGowran was involved in a murder investigation? What happened?"

"Not much. Whore murdered in.. oh, 1994, I think. A foreign girl." His watery eyes flicked briefly – unpleasantly – to Gashkouri. "Workers found her near Dublin Airport, raped and stabbed. McGowran used an ATM near her last pickup so we pulled him in for questioning. He said he saw her get in a car, but nothing ever came of it."

Castle shuddered.

Ryan said, "Well, McGowran was pretty good at looking innocent and manipulating the system."

They all stared darkly at Michael McGowran, freeze-framed on the screen. A charming, handsome, brilliant and deceptively dangerous man. Just like – and nothing like - Richard Castle, who sighed and clicked "play" again.

Michael smiled wryly into the camera. _"So, Rick, you've gotten this far. Which means I'm either dead or locked up. And you're looking for someone. But first there are some things I've gotta tell you. Things you should know. Things you don't want to know."_ He smirked, then chuckled, then coughed. Something wet rattled in his lungs. There was an abrupt jump cut. _"Hey, thanks for the pneumonia. It's been quite a ride."_

"_First: I'm your twin brother. Not identical, barely even similar. I guess maybe you take after Martha and I take after whoever our father was. Fortunately, you got the looks and I got the brains. And when Rosie's done with me, I'll have both. I'll have everything. Your home. Your wife. Your money. Your family. At least, that's the plan. But I'm making this video just in case."_

"_Rosie and I have a bet going. She thinks you can be turned. She thinks she can turn anyone, and while she may be right, she can also be a self-centered pain in the ass. You seem to have a taste for women like that. Perhaps it will work in her favor." _

He frowned a little, hesitating. "_You've found this drive, so you made the Powerscourt connection. You turned out to be a little smarter than I would have given you credit for. You sure were an idiot when we met on set. I thought it was a pretty clever stunt on my part: go into silent partnership on the production, get myself and Rosie cast. I was going to kill you and Martha during production but I was having too much fun. Then I decided to do it right after filming wrapped." _The corner of his mouth twitched._ "But... I changed my mind. Martha was a lot more interesting than I expected her to be. I decided I wanted to get to know her better. But you? Barely worth a second thought – you wanted to be a writer? Hah. You wrote In a Hail of Bullets, and there I was, the bad guy on page 3. You didn't even have a clue, not even when I sent your passport to your publisher." _

Rick paused the recording. "I'll explain that later."

Michael continued._ "You may have noticed, I like to plan things out. I figured I'd go to the States, have some fun, do some business, get to know Martha over time, kill you off if you ever became a threat. You wrote a few books, got married and divorced a couple times, pretty typical stuff. And then of course, I got myself arrested and spent some time in jail, just for giggles..." _Michael paused a moment, his expression dark._ "Then I read Mister Page Six had been working with the police! Solving homicides? That you'd helped put a serial killer away, worked with the FBI." _A snakelike smile slithered across his face._ "It sure did look like you had one hot detective in your little black book. So, one night, lying in my humble cell, I thought, 'Saaaay.'" _He stroked his chin theatrically._ "'I might have a worthy opponent after all.' And thus, the untimely deaths of those unfortunate girls in the Twelfth Precinct. On your watch." _

Esposito muttered under his breath, and Ryan sighed uncomfortably.

Michael's brow wrinkled. "_You weren't supposed to beat me, Richard. Nobody has ever beaten me. Nobody has ever even suspected me, before you. Nobody." _

He sort of jumped or wiggled in his seat unconsciously, a motion eerily reminiscent of Castle at his most childlike and gleeful._ "It was actually kind of cool. Made everything feel worthwhile again. Injected a whole new life into me, and Rosie as well. I have to thank you, because you really have inspired some stimulating projects." _He leaned confidentially toward the camera._ "You know, Rosie likes to think she's my muse, but really, it's you. She's just a tool toward an end." _Michael felt his face. _"When she's finished helping me replace you..." _he shrugged._ "Let's just say everyone's dispensable." _

Gashkouri huffed. "Ugh. What a bastard."

Rick rubbed his face with his left hand. "Yeah," he mumbled. "We both were." He looked at Jackson, who pursed his lips in anguish and sympathy, but held his gaze.

Jackson said, "The boys were separated at birth. I didn't know about Richard until he was almost five, and none of us knew about Michael until the car crash."

Onscreen, Michael sat back a little, away from the camera, and sipped at a stoneware mug of tea.

"So you're loo_king at this, and you're in Ireland, and you're wondering what to do next. Will you go to every shoot site you can remember from the movie, when you were stoned out of your mind half the time? Will you enlist the help of the Irish police to scour the entire country door to door?" _He laughed._ "I wish I was there to see you ripping your pretty hair out, Brother. I wish you was here. I'd rip it out myself." _

Rick was staring past Michael, into the kitchen in the background. "_Were,_" he corrected mentally. _"Wish I were there, wish..." _

_"But you've lost. I'm supposed to kill Tiffany Ross myself, but if I don't show up, the Butcher will finish her. Maybe they'll make her into designer soap or something. Render her down... you'll never find her. And her death will be squarely on your broad and rugged shoulders." _

Michael shrugged his own, still slightly narrower, shoulders. _"Of course, if Rose has her way, that will be literal rather than_ _figurative. We'll see."_

Rick stopped the recording and backed it up. He pointed to the shadows behind Michael. "The stove." He looked around. "It's an antique."

Rourke peered at it. "So?"

"I know where this was shot," he said. He jumped up out of the chair. Betsy jumped up too and hit her head on the underside of the table. Rick added, "I mean, sort of."

Several people said, "Where?"

"North Dublin. The squat house where Michael tried to kill me."

"You're sure?"

Rick nodded. "The stove's restored, but I recognize the logo. And I know the shape of the mantel where the old fireplace used to be in the kitchen."

Halloran scowled. "You see fireplace conversions like that in half the old Georgian houses in Dublin."

Rick smiled. "Maybe, but that's the house where we drank and sang "Wish You Were Here."

Jackson stopped him. "Son, there's still more time on the recording."

Rick sighed, sat down, clicked play. But there wasn't really much else to see. Michael smiled bitterly. _"You may be the last one standing, but remember there's always gonna be someone behind you who wants to move up in the game. So watch your back, because sooner or later... I win. And then I'll see you in hell." _He waggled his eyebrows._ "At this point I really should do a maniacal laugh, but I have this cough, and I don't want to wake Tiffany." _The camera swung sideways. A young blonde, pretty and slightly plump, tied and drugged, sagged oblivious in a chair on the other side of the table. A large, meaty hand reached in from offscreen and patted her cheek. She roused herself slightly and mumbled, "Kittens?" then passed out again.

Castle made a mental note. _"There's the threshold to the living room. That's the door to the basement stairs, there on the right. I know that house." _He sketched out a floor plan on his note pad &amp; passed it to Rourke, who sighed at him and shook his head.

Michael smiled and spoke to someone behind the camera. _"That'll do." _

And that was it. The screen went black.

* * *

Rourke looked at the floor plan and said, "Castle, seriously, that's half the row houses in Eire. North and south."

All the wind had gone from Rick's sails again, just like that. He felt sick, as did almost everyone else at the table.

Deciding to switch tactics, Esposito said, "Who's 'The Butcher'?"

Rourke and Gashkouri shrugged at one another, and she started a web search. Halloran said, "That's a name I haven't heard in a bit."

"What." Hunt was growing impatient.

Halloran thought back. "A serial killer. Went by Pat Murphy. Been inactive for years that anyone's heard of or connected any crime to him. Strung girls up, chopped them to bits and fed them to an unsuspecting clientele. Ran a meat pie shop in Arklow back in the 80s then disappeared. Never caught."

"That's twenty or thirty years back," said Rourke, then to Gashkouri, "Do they have any DNA samples on him?"

Gashkouri said, "Inconclusive. All you Irish are descended from kings," she said wryly.

Rourke snorted. "So, what are you sayin', we all look alike?"

Gaskhouri rolled her eyes. "Forget it."

Halloran said, "So. You'll be sending Mr. Castle's list of potential North Dublin properties to Central, and...?"

Rourke said, "We'll see if any are associated with known criminals or odd goings-on."

Castle nodded. "I have a list on my laptop of victims claimed by Rose O'Shaunessy. Maybe there will be clusters around given locations." He loaded the real estate list onto a flash drive and handed it to Gashkouri, who thanked him.

"Mr. Castle," said Rourke. "I know you really don't want anyone getting in your team's way. Yet you're more than happy to use our facilities for your benefit."

Esposito said, "Look, man, I know how you feel, but he'll make good."

"Will he now."

"Wait. You think this is for _my_ benefit?" Castle snapped. "Let me remind you there's a little girl out there, not much older than my own daughter, and if she's still alive she's probably scared out of her mind. All I want is to find her, alive, and bring her home safely. Anything else is frosting on the cake."

Ryan tapped Rourke on the arm and murmured, "Start with asking for an espresso machine."

•

Kate looked around Castle's hotel room. Aunt Theresa's amazing little set of keys had gotten her in easily enough. She was exhausted from the long flight. She left her shoes by the door, and then a little trail of discarded clothing through the main room, into the bedroom. It was great to take off her bra, which really was getting a bit tight. She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, and frowned. It was a miserable trickle, warmed by a wheezing, on-demand heater to something barely resembling lukewarm. The bathtub worked better, so she went for a bath instead, pouring herself a nice warm (not too hot!) tubful.

Finally she settled, with a nice selection of the toiletries she'd brought, into Castle's tub, shaved everything she felt like shaving, then emptied it, rinsed herself, and refilled the tub with plenty more warm, clean water. It was heavenly. She sank low into the water, even her ears covered a bit, just floating happily, listening to her own heartbeat. Wishing she could hear Castle's heartbeat against hers, wondering at the tiny heartbeat deep inside her. Their little one, whom she sometimes thought of as Small from Winnie the Pooh. She smiled to herself. "Your daddy's going to be so surprised!" The water was so warm, so silky. She slid her hands over the bare beginnings of her new set of curves. Everything was so ripe to touch, just felt so _good_. Part of her wanted to wait for Rick. Part of her knew that anything she did for herself would just make her more ready.

•

Castle's team and the Irish agents agreed to take a break, in preparation for a flood of data expected in a few hours' time. Betsy caught a scent in the hallway and barreled past joyfully, off her leash, with Mo hurrying behind, dodging a crowd of elderly tourists in sensible shoes. "What the hell, Bets!" he hollered. "Heel!"

She went to the elevator, wagging joyfully, ran back to Rick, bowed, and snorted "Fnoof!"

He said, "Really? Good to know." But she knew he was bluffing. Damn short-nosed smart-assed bipeds. She pounced away again, heading for the elevator, and this time Mo snagged her lead. "Betsy, you are a bad girl. Sit."

Betsy whined. "BUT.."

"SIT."

Betsy sat. Because she was a good girl. When Mo said, "Okay" she followed her nose into the elevator, wagging all the way. Ryan and Esposito looked at each other.

Ryan said, "If that dog picked a lottery ticket, I'd buy it."

Esposito rolled his eyes. "You'd probably just win a litter of puppies."

Jackson chuckled. "You know those things are rigged, right?" He and Esposito fistbumped.

They took the elevator to the third floor and checked into their own rooms. Betsy stopped at Castle's door, pawed at it, and Mo tugged her away. "Come on, you stubborn little brat," he grinned. "Yes, that's Rick's room, and you're a frickin' genius.

Betsy moaned, thinking,_ "But Kate's here!"_ Mo spoke Dog, but not well enough to catch the nuances.

* * *

Leaving the conference room, Teresa caught Castle's elbow with a smile. "Shall we take the stairs?"

He nodded. They walked arm in arm up the stairs, which were original to the building, steep stone, covered with patterned floral carpeting. Castle noticed that she really didn't need any steadying and while it wasn't a race, she would likely have run up them with little trouble. He said, "You remind me a bit of Mrs. Peel from the Avengers."

Her eyes twinkled. "Lady Diana will be delighted to hear her portrayal is recognizable."

Rick's eyebrows shot up. "Don't tell me the Avengers was a recruitment ploy."

"You'll have to agree that women add a certain civilizing influence."

"Not always..."

"Often enough."

"I'll grant you that."

They were at the landing. "Speaking of civilizing influences," she pointed out Castle's unevenly buttoned shirt, and he fixed it then tucked it into his jeans. "You're a bit of a mess."

He said heavily, "Yeah. Did you see Kate before you left the States?"

"Oh, yes. I brought along a little surprise for you."

Castle found himself blushing. "Really? That's so sweet."

They kept climbing. They were on the flight up to the third floor now. Castle finally burst out, "Well, where is it?"

Teresa laughed. "Patience, Nephew. I believe this is your room?"

"Nephew. Wow." His eyes looked a little misty. "I had an aunt, but she died when I was two."

She hid her surprise that this seemed to mean so much to him. One minute, Rick Castle was an extremely imposing man, the next moment just the funniest little fluffy duckling. She certainly understood how he'd captured Katie's heart.

He looked up and down the hall. "Where are you staying?"

"Oh, just at the end of the corridor. Northwest corner rooms." Her nose scrunched in a cute little wrinkle, something Rick had though was probably a Johanna mannerism but that apparently Kate had picked up from her dad's side of the family.

Rick said, "I'm glad you came." A shadow crossed his face, and Teresa put a hand on his shoulder.

"But I make you miss Kate even more."

He nodded silently, and she said, "Stiff upper lip, lad. You just get some rest before the intel comes in. I suppose we'll all meet over supper and a hideous pile of real estate printouts?"

"Yeah. Paperwork." He grimaced.

She tutted gently as she walked away down the hall. "If you'd like to pre-order dinner, I've been here before. Go for Irish salmon with hollandaise and baby potatoes. To die for."

"I'll make a note of that." He already had his room key in the lock. He turned it, opened the door, stepped inside. Like little sentinels to greet him, he found his wife's travel boots – the ones she wore to small airfields and pumpkin patches and, on one ill-fated trip, hunting Bigfoot - just a few feet from the door. A couple of socks were tucked into them. Her Badass Kate black leather jacket – his favorite - graced the arm of a chair. Her black was draped over the bedroom doorknob, and in the bedroom, her jeans were puddled on the floor. Last, her bra and panties (both cranberry satin) hung from the bathroom doorknob. He called out joyfully, "Kate?"

There was no answer. He knocked softly on the bathroom door, so as not to startle her. He could hear her singing softly, and a little off-key...

_"Everything is dark_  
_It's more than you can take_  
_But you catch a glimpse of sun light_  
_Shining, shining down on your face_  
_Your face_  
_Oh your face_

_Oh, you're in my veins_  
_And I cannot get you out"_

Rick carefully opened the bathroom door. Kate was in his bathtub, so low the water was covering her ears, singing softly. She'd dimmed the light low, and it shimmered on her knees and breasts as she ran her hands slowly over her body, a blissful little smile on her face.

Rick had learned a bit about boundaries since meeting Kate Beckett seven years before. So thrilled he could barely contain himself, he closed the door quietly again – allowing himself a silent crow of _"YES!"_ and went to the kitchenette area to get a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses.

He returned to the bedroom and set the water - and some ice cubes - on the night table. Then he rapped boldly on the bathroom door, booming in a deep, absolutely dead-on country brogue, "Housekeepin'. Mr. Castle, is this _your_ unmentionables on the doorknob?"

A startled splash, followed by, "Hello?"

"Mr. Castle, you know you're not supposed to have women in there. JaysusMaryJoseph, ye're a married man." He rattled the doorknob.

There was a note of panic in Kate's voice. "Wait! I'm his wife." He heard the plug pop out, and the rush of water through pipes older than his father.

"His wife! Ha! Ah, sure and he told me he was travelin' alone. Saddest aul' fella I ever seen."

Her voice grew stern. "Castle, is that you?"

"Not-at-all, my lass. I'm Housekeepin'. Do you have any identification, Mrs. Castle? _If_ that's your _real_ name."

"Not on me, I don't." Kate yanked the door open and flung herself at him, wearing nothing more than a towel and a smile. "Oh, thank God you're not the bellboy." They spent a reasonable time kissing, then came up for air.

"Really? If you want I can ask the concierge for one of those nifty red jackets with the brass buttons."

"Nope. Not a stitch."

"I could get a little pillbox hat..."

"No hats." She ran fingers through his hair. "Is it my imagination or did it grow again?"

He hauled her back toward the neatly made bed, which was about to get decidedly rumpled. He growled, "Something's growing."

She paused unbuttoning his shirt to run a finger down his belly. "Your love for me, right?"

"Uh, yeah. That too."

{Insert Hot Sex Scene Here. I recommend something by KimmiesJoy}.


	40. Chapter 40

Wait! I can explain! *

* * *

**TooSoon Chapter 40: Drive**

_Lately I'm beginning to find that I should be the one behind the wheel  
Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there  
With open arms and open eyes yeah – Incubus_

Castle was face-down on the bed, an arm and leg thrown over Beckett's warm curves, both of them covered with a floral duvet more fitting in a grandma's house. Or a twee Irish countryside hotel. Next to the bed, the phone started the double-ring used in England and Ireland. Insistent, and shrill, it burrowed into his sleeping mind until he thrust out an arm and knocked the phone off the bedside table, along with a bowl of water that had been ice. Miraculously, nothing broke, but the person on the other end of the line clearly sounded alarmed when the headset skittered across the floor. Rick picked it up by its cord and eventually guided it to his ear. "Castle," he mumbled.

"You all right, son?"

_Son_. "Yeah. Yeah, Dad. I'm good." He smiled and sat up, glanced at the time. They'd slept away most of the afternoon; it was now 5:45 although at that northern latitude, the sun's high summer angle played havoc with his sense of time. He'd made Kate wear earplugs and she was still snoozing undisturbed. Screw jetlag and serial killers and getting back into the country without being shot down by the NSA, they'd be back in New York within a few days, he hoped. "Kate's here."

Jackson was silent a moment. "Are you talking in your sleep again?"

"No, no. Aunt Teresa smuggled her in."

"Shit," Jackson said. "She should be safe at home. What was she thinking?"

Castle nodded, unseen. "I know. I gave my best shot at a fight about it already, but we were both too wiped out. And here she is, gracing the Auld Sod."

"Right. So where are Alexis and Martha?"

"I checked on them. They've signed out of the hotel, $14,323 later."

"Seriously? Ouch."

"Worth it. They're staying at Captain Gates' house till we get back."

"What could _possibly_ go wrong?"

"I don't think anything will get past the Gates clan."

"You're right. Solid wall o' justice there." Jackson chuckled. "Anyway, haul your ass out of bed. Irish cops have started sending over files about the current status on McGowran's real estate holdings."

"Already? I'm impressed."

"I'm almost shocked. They've upgraded their system since the last time we butted heads."

"Someday I'll ask you."

"Someday I'll tell you. Maybe."

"Look, since you're up, can you contact the concierge and order up some dinner outside? 6:15 p.m. Roast beef Wellington, salmon with Hollandaise, potatoes, and fresh peas. Beer, wine, oh, and coffee. If we get a hit we may have to take off. Cranberry juice for Kate. And dessert of some kind. Maybe a strawberry pavlova?"

"What do I look like, a waiter?"

"You do when you're wearing a cheap tux."

Jackson snorted "Bastard," and hung up without saying goodbye, but he was laughing.

Richard Alexander Edgar Rodgers Castle was starting to get the distinct and pleasant feeling that his father actually _liked_ him. He wondered what the old man's name really was.

•

When Kate and Rick emerged from their hotel room and met Betsy and Mo down in the garden, the dog went nearly insane, running in circles, yipping and crying. Mo wouldn't let her jump up. Rick said sidelong to his wife, "Finally, someone else understands how I feel about you."

Betsy sat finally, apologetic for her wildly inappropriate behavior. To the dog's amazement, Kate sat down by the artificial pond on its low concrete lip, took Betsy in her arms as well as she could, and murmured, "You are such a sweet girl," low in her ear. Kate took her thumb and made little circles, right there on her forehead. Just like Rick had shown her, taking her hand that night he came to visit her with Royal... she looked up at him, and of course he was smiling down at her, remembering, and she was suddenly the happiest woman in the world again, and she couldn't imagine wanting to ever spend another moment away from him.

In his eyes, the bright Irish midsummer sun was dimmed by her glow. He put on sunglasses and turned away, just a second, wanting to hide tears of sheer groveling gratitude to the universe at large. Then he turned back to Kate with a grin, and she saw her own smile reflected in the dark lenses.

"Who's a lucky dog?" said Rick. "I'm a lucky dog."

Betsy moaned and let out a soft yodel of bliss.

The sun at that latitude doesn't even set until after 9:45 p.m., and the weather was utterly perfect. So, most of them wearing sunglasses, Castle's team - including Rourke and Gashkouri - actually ate in the garden courtyard outside, all except Halloran who was probably off drinking his dinner somewhere. He'd left a message at the front desk, saying he'd catch up to them when they had news. I want to write about the food, but I won't, because either you've already eaten, or you're hungry. It just wouldn't be fair. Castle sneaked Betsy some roast beef under the table, and it was so good she could have died happily right then and there. Much as she loved Mo and treasured her working relationship with him... she found herself feeling open to other options. Such as Beef Wellington. She didn't miss Halloran. He smelled like garbage, and not the fun kind.

Once they were finished, they moved into the conference room again, which had been somehow magically hooked up with a few terminals and printers. Rick looked around, wide-eyed, his left hand clasped in Kate's.

"Well, this is new." He murmured, "I don't know whom to thank."

Teresa smiled. "Thank Interpol. There are a few agents there who have the brains to know when to help, and when to stay the hell out of the way."

Kate smiled at her. The resemblance wasn't something you'd notice if you weren't looking for it. There are a lot of tall women with high cheekbones. "Thank you, Agent Soames."

"Let's hope this makes the job easier."

Ryan had had a little too much Guinness, and he snickered. "Hey, look, Castle, finally got your own murder board."

Everyone turned to look at him.

Esposito rasped, "Really, bro?"

"Not a murder, of course. Kidnapping." Ryan's face turned beet red. "I, uh, think I'll switch to coffee."

They took up stations around the table, split into teams, and divided up the real estate information by addresses. Most of McGowran's real estate was in Dublin, but that's hardly a small town, and he had additional homes and commercial businesses – including a few "housing estates" that had been built then abandoned after the balloon popped – in eleven of the seventeen counties, north and south. Gashkouri put a map up on a cork board with pins showing murder locations, and gradually pieces of paper – descriptions of possible pieces of real estate – began to join them up on the board. There were, indeed, clusters. Some of them Castle recognized – murders that Rose O'Shaunessy admitted to, or at least knew about.

Mo took Betsy out for a quick walkies, then went upstairs with her to phone his wife and daughter, wish them goodnight. He was homesick. "I can't say where I am, honey, but I promise I'll be home in three days, tops." He hoped that promise was gonna work out. If not, he'd be asking for double-time.

Beckett sat by Castle and pored over printouts, trying to correlate McGowran's real estate purchases with increases, or even spikes, in murders, abductions, disappearances. North Dublin is riddled with crime in some areas, as it is. Looking for a pattern was an immense challenge. After over an hour of intense focus, at 8:30 Kate had to stop and take a break. She stood and stretched, then rested her chin lightly on Castle's shoulder. "You know how much I love you?" she whispered.

He turned and spoke softly into the shell of her ear. "I could guess, but I like it when you tell me yourself."

"I came halfway around the world to do _paperwork. _For_ you_." She grinned devilishly. "And I almost don't even mind."

He took her hand and kissed it. "I'm almost flattered."

She stood and stretched. "I need to move around a bit. I'll be back." (This, he presumed, was code for 'I gotta pee').

He nodded absently, staring at the screen. The Google Street views were very disheartening. Rourke was right: all those old Georgian townhouses look so similar: a front door painted in a bright color, a half-circle transom over the top, usually with half-columns at the side, the building gray stone or red brick, the trim white. Windows on either side and up above. Peaked slate roofs, all connected, all with the same slope. Short, ornate, pointy but rather useless wrought-iron fences that seemed to be magnets for trash and bicycle parts. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, then closed them. The memory was over 25 years old – more than half his life, and clouded by his own ("_Stupid, stupid, stupid!"_) intoxication. He hadn't had a drink since confirming Beckett was pregnant. Odd, now that he contemplated his own past failings, he suddenly wanted one. A pint of ale or a single-malt shot would have really done it for him. Paradoxically, sometimes being a little fuzzy forced him to sharpen his thoughts.

He shuffled the ideas around in his mind, frustrated. There is only so much reality the Google Camera Van can capture, and it was all broad daylight, not the moonlit night he remembered. He got up, paced around, looked at the map of North Dublin enlarged on the board, sighed. Drank coffee. Sighed again. Went outside into the back of the hotel property, found some flat pebbles down by the stream there, and skipped them over the smooth water, making blue ripples in the reflection of paler blue sky. Thinking-not-thinking. Woolgathering. Lollygagging. Procrastinating. Sometimes it helped.

* * *

Kate emerged from room 301 about ten minutes later, feeling a lot better. As she locked the door, an older gentleman in a shabby tan coat approached down the hall, and passed her, heading for the elevator. He seemed balding, but wore an Irish tweed cap, so it was hard to tell. He had a long, red nose, and from several feet away, she could smell him: cigarettes, sweat, and beer. She headed to the elevator and pressed the button, and he glanced over at her. "Evenin'." He seemed odd, short of breath, beads of sweat running into his craggy white brows.

She nodded and smiled politely. "Evening." The elevator opened and they stepped inside. It was notoriously slow, the cables squeaking above.

Between floors 2 and 1, the old man let out a long breath, hunched slightly, and gripped his right arm. "Miss, I, uh..." his eyes closed, and he groaned slightly. Kate stepped over to him. "Sir? Are you all right?"

She felt his gun pressed into her side. "Act casual. Make one false move and I blow a hole right through yeh."

Shock washed over Kate. She'd been shot before. She knew acutely, just how it would feel again. She nearly collapsed herself, then remembered the baby.

"Just cooperate and nobody gets hurt," he muttered, smiling stiffly. He linked an arm in hers, the gun still pressed into her side under his elbow. As they left the elevator, she sighed, knowing that nobody in Castle's conference room would be able to see this side of the old building. She looked around the hotel lobby; nobody was on hand, and there was only one camera, at the front desk. She said, "You're Halloran." They strolled casually out, passing the few cars in the small parking lot, then the hedge of red-leaved photinia around it.

"Brilliant deduction, Mrs. Castle." They walked a few steps up the gravel drive, where a small black car awaited them. Everything in Kate's being screamed, _"Don't get in the car!"_ and everything in Halloran's gun growled, _"Do what he tells you."_

She said, "Why are you doing this?"

"Leverage," he said. "Get in." He opened the door, and the reek nearly made her vomit: ashtray full past the brim. Smoke. Rotten food. Fermented sodapop. Mold. Spilled motor oil.

Her eyes watered. "This is actually worse than a Pontiac GTO."

"Get. The fuck. In."

She climbed in, and he slammed the door. Of course he'd removed the inside handle. She looked around desperately. There was no one in sight, just acres of beautiful cottage gardens, and a little stream just after the rose-covered gateway to the drive. An old stone bridge arched gracefully over the water. _So pretty_. She didn't want it to be the last beautiful thing she saw. She tried to calm herself.

Halloran got into the car and handed her some cuffs. "Put them on."

"You're crazy if you think..."

The safety off, she felt its barrel click against her chest. And he _knew where her scar was_. He knew. He knew about _her_. She froze, shaking. He hissed, "Do it."

She put the cuffs on. He started the car, signaled, looked about ponderously, then pulled out slowly, like a tourist out on a Sunday drive. Kate said, "I'm going to be sick. Please, open the window."

"When we're on the road, dearie," he said. "Meantime, just take deep breaths..."

"It's the deep breaths that are killing me," she gagged. They passed the gate. A gardener on a ladder was deadheading the climbing pink roses. He glanced, waved, smiled a shy goodbye. His face was horribly scarred. She frowned at him and nodded back toward the hotel. _"Help me!"_ she mouthed. His smile faded, and he went back to clipping dead flowers off the trellis. She felt like a horrible bitch. He hadn't gotten the message.

The car accelerated onto the road, following the stream as it curved around the hotel's back property. Dust and cigarette ash blew around, clinging to the perspiration on her face and chest.

"Please!" Kate begged.

Halloran cracked the window halfway, fresh air streamed in, and they drove for only a hundred feet or so when Kate spied a tall man standing by the stream, watching the water flow by. He bent and picked up a stone, then skipped it. She knew her husband, his stance, his build, and his powerful, smooth motion as she knew the blood flowing through her own veins, and she couldn't restrain herself from screaming his name out the window. "CASTLE!"

Halloran's car swerved, he swore, and rolled up the window. "You stupid fuck!" he thundered. "You wanna get yourself killed? Keep that shite up."

"I'm sorry," Kate gasped. "I'm so sorry, I just, I saw him. I don't understand."

"Did he hear you?" Halloran sped up, shifting with a curse.

"I don't know. There's a blind spot." Had Rick turned at the sound of her voice? She actually wasn't sure. "What has he ever done to you?"

"Shut up and let me drive," he gritted.

_•_  
**  
**Bending to pick up a nice, flat stone, Rick thought he heard Kate's voice calling his name - "Caaaastlllllle!" in the distance, but it was probably from the wrong direction, since it seemed to come from the road. From a car. From a car he didn't know, being driven by a man in a tweed cap, heading north toward Dublin.  
**  
"**_Kate_?!" Fuck. "Oh, holy shit."

He wasted no time running after the car. Hurtling back to the hotel conference room, his mind flew: "Was that Kate? Was that someone looking at the hotel and excited about seeing a castle? It doesn't look like a castle. Maybe I imagined it. No. I didn't. What the hell?"

When he thundered in, breathing heavily, they all knew from his face that something was horrifically wrong. He cried out, "Have you seen Kate? Or Halloran?" They were all up and moving in seconds.

"Haven't seen him all night," said Ryan.

Esposito looked at the Irish cops. "Just who is he, anyway?"

Their eyes went wide. "He told us Castle hired him as a consultant."

Castle said, "We thought he was with you. Might be my imagination, but I think he's taken Kate." He tossed his room key to Esposito, who caught it with a nod and bounded away up the stairs with Ryan. "Who has the fastest car?" He was already heading for the front parking lot, the others hurrying behind his long strides.

"You don't need speed so much as you need muscle," said Hunt.

Teresa disagreed. "On these narrow roads? Smaller the better."

"What you need is a police escort," said Rourke.

Gashkouri was already in the car, on her police radio. "Car description?"

"Black compact coupe with a dent along the driver's side door. Maybe a '95 Ford Escort," Rick said. He'd rented a few in Europe. They were little workhorses. He added, "Didn't see the plates."

In the back of his mind, Rick noticed, but had no inclination to enjoy, the fact that he was the leader, and that everyone there trusted him to make the right decision. He would realize later that it was a horrible position to be in, the kind of position Derrick Storm was made for but Richard Rodgers would prefer to avoid. But a part of his mind focused like a laser: "_Stay calm. Stay organized. Find Kate."_

Ryan had roused Mo and sent him down with Betsy. "Where's Kate, Betsy? Find Kate." The Shakespeare of Smell picked up Kate's scent, ending at an empty space in the gravel drive, out of sight of the main parking lot. Betsy placed it: _"This is where Kate got in the car."_ She snuffled. _"The car stinks."_ Mo habitually carried a mini can of fluorescent pink spray paint to mark areas with footprints or other evidence. He put marks down by the tire tracks for the locals to analyze. Betsy wagged at the gardener and barked her best Bark of Friendly Greeting. The gardener had had vegetarian pakoras for lunch, and his wife had a small, elderly, incontinent Corgi/King Charles Spaniel mutt. The gardener was a nice man. But he was kind of sad and didn't get enough sleep.

Rick's phone rang. It was Esposito: _"She's not in your room. Her purse and jacket are here. Ryan's checking at the front desk to see if anyone saw them leave." _

Rick glanced at the building, scanning for cameras. He and Kate had made out a little in the elevator on the way down to dinner. No cameras there, he knew. "Have them check the security feed in the parking lot."

_"On it." _

Meantime, Teresa and Jackson argued over who was going to drive Rick through the countryside to Dublin. It was reasonable to assume that Halloran knew Tiffany's kidnappers, but by no means a foregone conclusion. They debated whether Halloran would be so stupid as to lead them where they wanted to go anyway.

The gardener, an elderly Pakistani immigrant with a burn scar over a third of his face, accompanied Mo and Betsy back from the driveway. He stood watching all this fuss, then approached Rick shyly.

Distracted and worried as he was, Rick said, "I'm Rick Castle. And you?" He offered his hand to shake. The gardener looked a bit surprised, then doffed his battered leather glove and shook Rick's hand.

"Mr. Adil Idrisi."

"We need your help, sir. Did you see a tall woman leave the lot about three minutes ago? With an older man?"

Mr. Idrisi blinked. Hotel staff were constantly reminded to be discreet about guest comings and goings.

"Please," Rick persisted, a lump in his throat. "She's my wife. She's been kidnapped." He rummaged in his wallet.

The gardener scratched his black curls. "The supermodel lady?"

"Yes." Rick showed him the photo.

"Oh, no! Yes, she was with an old man."

"Bald? Red nose?"

"Yes. Wearing a tan coat. I saw you with him yesterday, was he not your friend?"

Rick shook his head. "How did she seem?"

"Fine. They walked arm in arm. He opened the door for her and helped her get in. I thought he was perhaps a seemed quite chummy."

"Did she say anything to you?"

"No, but she gave me a funny look."

Rourke flashed his police badge impatiently. "What kind of funny look?" Idrisi quailed a little.

Castle smiled at him, pleading. "Anything you can remember."

The gardener tried to duplicate it: a frown, a nod toward the building. Rick knew the gesture: _''Get help'_. "I just thought she did not want me staring at her. I get a lot of funny looks."

_"Where are you, Kate?"_ Rick thought, then sighed. "So you saw the car?"

"Oh yes," said Idrisi. "But I am not wearing my glasses. It was black. Two-door."

"Could you read the license plate?"

"It had none on the back." He thought a moment. "The car smelled. And the back seat was heaped with garbage."

"How would you know that?"

"It was parked in the drive, and I walked past it on my way in from deadheading the roses by the front gate." He pointed, as proof, to a large plastic basket full of rose prunings.

All this has taken a while to read, but in truth, it was less than six minutes from Rick hearing Kate, to running in, to this moment.

Esposito ran out of the hotel, carrying Kate's purse. "Her phone's not in it." He handed it to Rick with a brief smile. "She's gonna want the crackers." Rick's eyes brightened a second at his vote of confidence. Jackson had already started the SUV and positioned it to pull out of the lot. Rourke hopped in to ride shotgun, and stuck a portable gumball on the roof.

Teresa was understandably shaken by the whole turn of events, her cool crumbling. "I'll work with Ryan to involve the local police and get whatever intel we can. Hopefully set up roadblocks. And, uh, I'll call Jim."

Rick nodded. "Thanks." He paused and gave Teresa a brief hug. "This isn't your fault. She would have found a way to get here."

Teresa's lips trembled. "I know. But I wish I'd figured out a way to slow her down."

Rick chuckled drily and whispered, "Yeah, good luck with that, Aunty." Teresa gave him a miserable smile and returned to the hotel lobby. Ryan had found the staff on its dinner break, after all the guests had finished their meals. Said staff was now in an uproar, but more-or-less useless, since they'd seen nothing. Only the manager knew how to work the video feed, and he was a bit clueless.

Rick tried phoning Kate, but it went to voice mail. "Kate, if you get this, call me. I love you. Halloran, if you hear this: you'd better stop what you're doing and turn yourself in, because you'll want to be in police custody before I can get my hands on you." He clicked off.

Rourke said, "All right. This is how it's gonna work. Gashkouri drives like a soddin' maniac, but she knows the roads and has a siren. Espotiso -"

"EspoSIto."

"Whatever. Ride with Gashkouri, handle the radio. So _you_:" he pointed forcefully at Jackson. "You _follow_ her. _No_ feckin' around. Castle and Atta in the back, with the dog. I'm on radio and this is _my_ jurisdiction. All right?"

Hunt raised his hands in surrender and shrugged, but said nothing.

Rourke fiddled around on Hunt's police radio, pulling up the local band. "How in hell did you get this in a rental?"

"He knows a guy," said Castle. Gashkouri pulled her SUV out of the lot with a squeal of tires, Hunt close on her tail. After they crossed the stone bridge, Gashkouri went with lights and sirens, full bore.

The winding road was old and narrow, lined with short, drystone walls and hedgerows, passing mostly farms and the occasional sad ruin of a cottage. They passed a couple of small stores and one Irish Heritage Site sign for an ancient stone circle. The occasional long branch, often splintered and dying, extended out of trees every few kilometers, reaching as if in hope of tearing off a mirror or gas cap. Several times the SUVs got stuck behind slow-moving cars and once, behind a small herd of sheep. But with the lights and siren, and Gashkouri driving, indeed, like a maniac or Kate Beckett on a more stressful day, they made good time. Esposito was the first to spot Halloran's car.

He radioed Rourke. "Could be them. Up ahead." Gashkouri gunned it and a moment later, at a long dip in the road, everyone in Hunt's SUV could see the black car ahead as well. Gashkouri said, "If that son of a bitch turns off, we are going to have ourselves a big fucking problem."

"How so?" said Esposito. He couldn't help but smile. She had such a musical and civilized voice, so calm, but behind the wheel, she swore like a sailor and made it sound downright ladylike.

"Narrow-ass side road. It cuts across country to the main highway, but it's frequented by butt-headed farmers with herds. Tractors almost as wide as the road. Halloran's small car may be able to pass where these goddamned battleships cannot."

He said, "Who taught you to drive?" (What he really wanted to ask was _"Who taught you to swear?"_)

"My older brother was an Eire Express delivery teamster. After my mother died he sometimes took me on weekend jobs. My father did not want to leave me alone at home."

"Ah." Esposito hung on for dear life as the SUV skidded around a badly-banked hairpin, then accelerated up the slumping side of a low, heath-covered mountain. They followed the car up a steep grade to the top of a blind hill, caught a sickening moment's air, then landed, barreling downhill again at an insane downward trajectory. "Self-taught, then." They passed a round yellow road sign with the silhouette of a tractor on it. Gashkouri said something I can't even type with most of the letters starred out. Ahead, the black car veered wildly then split off onto a tiny side road heading northeast to a saddleback, hemmed on either side by steep banks, tunneled by overhead tree branches.

"Hold onto your shit," said Gashkouri with a determined grin. "This is truly going to suck."

* * *

Behind them, Jackson was laughing. He loved driving, but was careful to give himself enough braking distance to not get killed if Gashkouri slammed into a wall. "You weren't kidding. She's NASCAR material."

Rourke shrugged. "Almost pissed me pants a couple times. But she gets us there."

In back with Rick and Mo, Betsy had her head out the window, barking merrily, her ears flapping like flags in the breeze. "Sheep! Goats! Cows! Pigs! Silage. Don't like silage. Bunnies, bunnies, bunnies, foxes, WHAT IN HELL IS THAT (She'd smelled it before in passing, all over Ireland: peat bog.) Badgers! River. River otter... with fish. KATE! KATE KATE horses KATE KATE milk cows KATE bunnies new-mown hay KATE!" Of course to anyone who wasn't a dog, this sounded like a string of monotonous variations on "Bow wow wow."

Mo's skin was a sort of grey with nausea from the wild ride, and was having trouble concentrating on Betsy. Although her harness was clipped down to the lap belt, Betsy's tail waved furiously. Jackson called back, "Can you shut the dog up?"

"She's got a scent," Mo said. "Quiet, Betsy!"

"But, _KATE_!" She whimpered.

Mo pulled Betsy until she sprawled across him and Castle. Rick put an arm around her shoulders against his chest, her jowls occasionally smacking him wetly in the face. He let Mo deal with the tail. Mo closed the window.

Rick called up front to Jackson. "I took my bike on this road after Dark Queen of Palladia. There's a really nasty drop on the other side of this grade."

"You remember that?"

"Took some digging."

Jackson chuckled. "You're right, hang on to the dog. Whoooo!"

The SUV went airborne. Rick felt his stomach drop. Betsy whined when they hit asphalt again and bounced. "Yeah, I know," Castle said.

Mo added, "You're a good girl. We'll get out soon."

At the bottom of the grade, they followed Gashkouri into the side road and were plunged into a lovely green tunnel, sliced with slanting bars of early-evening light. The sun would go down in two hours, and then finding Kate might become impossible. Speed was of the essence. The line of trees ended abruptly, and at this angle, the sun glared into their eyes. Everyone put their sunglasses back on. Rick hid tears behind his. He'd finally had enough time for the adrenaline rush to even out, and now his mind and stomach both churned with fear, doubt, and anger.

Betsy said, "Whhhuuuhhh," and put her nose on her paws. She liked car rides, but only when she got to put her nose out the window. This was turning into a real bummer.

They rounded a blind curve and Jackson slammed the brakes. The SUV's tires screeched, and they stopped about three inches from Gashkouri's back bumper.

Ahead of them was a tractor or truck, loaded with loose hay, wheezing along at a sedate 3 kilometers per hour. There was no sign of Halloran's car. The road was too narrow to pass. The hay was piled so high they couldn't even see the cab – if there was one.

So many people said, "Shit."

Rick tried the door handle. _Child-proof? Really?_ "Hey Jackson, let me out."

"Why?"

"This road doesn't widen for a while. We're stuck behind this tractor till it does. I want to talk to the driver. Rourke, you come with. Cut the sirens."

Jackson stopped the SUV. Castle and Rourke stepped out. They followed along behind the tractor, its frame nearly unrecognizable but for thick tires below and its diesel smokestack above. Rick chose the left side, which seemed to have some hay torn away, and they hurried alongside the slow-moving vehicle, coming around the front. They overshot the tractor a little and turned to find an ancient farmer hunched over the wheel, one immense, stone-hard hand gripping the wheel, the other holding a freshly lit cigarette between his left middle and ring finger. His index finger was missing.

Rick gave himself plenty of room to back up if it didn't work out. "Stop. STOP!" He waved his arms, and the farmer eventually peered up from under his tweed cap.

"Eh, lad! Where'd you come from?" He braked to a stop, but the diesel engine continued to rattle and hum.

"Sorry," Rick said. "Did someone pass you? A small black car?"

"I t'ink so," the farmer said. He peered hard at Rick, his eyes watery behind bottle-thick glasses. "I know you."

"You do?" Rick approached the tractor, and the old man stuck out his hand. They shook vigorously.

"Time I introduced meself proper," said the farmer. "Neal Lafferty."

Hidden behind his sunglasses, Rick's eyes suddenly went wide with recognition, and his voice went up an octave. "Is that you?"

The old farmer said affably, "Always knew we'd cross paths again, Bono. Want a ride?"

Ancient and strong as oak, he pulled easily on Rick's left arm. Rick stepped up onto the cab and sat next to Mr. Lafferty.

"My wife's been kidnapped, Mr. Lafferty. I need your help."

* * *

*I never even saw Drive! Just a few scenes and the bloopers online. So I didn't realize what I was doing till I'd finished the chapter, titled it, and threw the song lyrics in. Then it was like, Oh, duh. DAMN YOU CARL JUNG AND YOUR COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS.

And this is what I get for letting Kate come to Ireland. JaysusMaryJosephAndAllTheSaints.


	41. Chapter 41

Sorry, there's been rather a delay on this one. Thanks to the kindly feedback from my brilliant betas, WOML, Selim &amp; Putz. They've saved you from reading one long and extremely confusing chapter.

A couple notes: I have family from this area, and on my first trip to Dublin, my cousin took me to McGonagle's, the club where U2 played many of their early gigs. Dancing with Irish punks - a combination of a mosh pit and an Irish reel - was an unforgettable and pretty hair-raising experience. I had a grand time and garnered a few bruises, as well, all in fun. It's odd to imagine that most of those hot early-20s kids in their leather, piercings, and wild haircuts are now middle-aged, settled, and likely working on their first grandchildren. May they always be just slightly ahead of me! :-)

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 41  
The High Road and the Low**

_Shut up and listen to what you've been given_  
_ Hold on listen, while the blood is waiting_

_There's a clock on the mantle watches_  
_ As time rolls by_  
_ Saying there's mountains to climb and the sky_  
_ If we're willing to aim high_  
_ For the rest of your life_

_The man who told me this story_  
_ Is long dead_  
_ But I hear his music alive in my head_  
_ Spent his whole life giving_  
_ As best he can_  
_ Saying help me believe in the_  
_ Things I believe in_  
"Shut Up and Listen"- the Hothouse Flowers

* * *

**Somewhere in County Wicklow, Ireland****  
July 3, 2014**

**Kate: 8:56 p.m. (Local time)**

Kate hadn't said a word, and neither had Halloran, since he closed her window, cutting off her desperate cry to Castle. She checked her father's watch. They'd been on the road about 20 minutes, but it felt like forever. Did Castle even know she was gone yet? Had he heard her, seen her?

They passed through farmland, then a little village, then the road continued into less-populated regions, some of it national park, winding in to the green, heather-gray and brown Wicklow foothills.

Wicklow County was nicknamed, without irony, "The Garden of Ireland". Almost every turn in the road gave Kate an angle worthy of a tourist postcard... that is if the car's windows hadn't been streaked and filthy. Occasionally they passed through wooded areas with beech, pine or oak; with undergrowth of ferns, foxgloves, and tangled ivy. But mostly it was grazing land, in some places nibbled nearly to bare rock by sheep. They passed a dairy at one point, then a mile or so further on, got stuck a moment behind a small flock of sheep. Halloran honked until the shepherd flipped him off. Halloran leaned on the horn. Kate wondered if that would be a good time to club him over the ear with her cuffs, but she couldn't take that chance, not with the baby, not with a gun in the man's hand, hidden below the steering wheel, pointed at her. Then the shepherd whistled; his dog drove the sheep to the roadside, and the little car squeezed by. The shepherd didn't even look at the car, didn't see Kate's desperate face.

Her eyes watered, and she leaned her head against the nicotine-yellowed window glass, trying to garner clues about her captor. There was little to go on aside from a pathological slovenliness that implied hoarding, which in its own turn might indicate a traumatic loss. It crossed Kate's mind that perhaps John O'Shaunessy hadn't died after all, and she was in the car with the man who had sent Kelly Nieman on her path to mayhem. She shivered.

Betsy could have assured her otherwise, of course: O'Shaunessy and Halloran were only very distantly related, and while Halloran stank, he didn't smell like someone who loved to hurt people for fun. He just smelled as if he'd given up and considered himself refuse: alone, drunk, sick, and dirty.

They passed a few bicyclists doing a tour, probably running late for their evening's booking at a B&amp;B. Castle had told her a little about his solo bike ride through the area as a young man. It had been a real challenge, and although he didn't exactly say so, he was clearly proud that he'd ridden a dented, International Orange racing bike alone, all the way from the Ring of Kerry to Dublin.

She almost smiled to herself. On his teenage odyssey, Rick Rodgers had been a grungy-looking kid with a mullet and ragged jeans, a knapsack, and an utterly inadequate sleeping bag that left him shivering most nights, which were dewy even in summer. Tonight's bicyclists all wore helmets, neon spandex shorts, and had high-tech, ultralight rides. Young Rick had actually had to _carry_ his bike once ("Uphill. Both ways!") until a sympathetic farmer lent him the tools he'd needed to fix it on the road.

Kate looked at her watch again. "Nine oh-seven," she said.

Halloran was quiet a moment, then said in irritation, "Why do you keep checking the time?"

_"Make him sweat, or keep him off guard?"_ Kate wondered. She sighed. "Castle's probably assumed I'm crashed out from jet lag. I doubt he even knows I'm gone yet."

Halloran chuckled drily. "You know him better than I do."

Kate said nothing, cards close to the vest. She glanced in the side-view mirror. Her angle wasn't very good, but she thought she caught a bluish flash behind them in the distance. The sun was still bright, although low in the sky, of course. The Escort started up a steep, surprisingly straight incline, then Halloran glanced into his rear view mirror and swore. He rolled the window down a crack. Kate was sure now that she could hear sirens behind them. Not the "aroooooooreeeeaaaa" of an American police car, but the "nee-nerrrr-nee-nerrrr" of Irish police. Maybe just a local police car on an unrelated call. But maybe it was Gashkouri and Rourke's SUV, in which case...

Kate looked him full on. "You know, my phone did buzz in my pocket about fifteen minutes ago. Maybe I should see if it was my angry and anxious husband in pursuit." She couldn't reach her back pocket with the cuffs on.

Halloran licked his lips. "Shut up."

Kate shrugged genially and said nothing more. She felt it best to keep it light, not antagonize a man who was clearly near his breaking point.

They were accelerating up a blind hill. It had been a while since Kate had driven in Europe. The trip from Shannon Airport to the hotel had been hair-raising enough in Aunt Teresa's little rented Mini. Kate was acutely aware of feeling on the "wrong" side of the road, and hoped there wasn't an oblivious tourist or sheep on the other side. She braced herself in cold terror as Halloran's car approached the crest. But he lost his nerve and slowed a bit, so the drop on the other side fortunately didn't leave them hurtling through space and into the land of broken axels. But he picked up speed accelerating downhill, and when they were near the bottom, Kate saw the first SUV go airborne at the crest behind them.

Kate looked at her watch. "Nine eighteen. Look," she said. "Give it up. This will all be over soon. You might as well make it easy on yourself."

"EASY?" he snarled. "I've been waiting for this for years."

"Waiting for what?"

"Answers." He downshifted.

* * *

**Kate, 9:22 p.m.  
**They passed a "Slow Tractors" sign and careened right, onto a narrow side road tunneling through dark trees. After navigating a series of wild turns for a minute or two, the car screeched nearly to a halt, and Kate slammed her eyes shut as a yellowish-gray wall of hay arose before them. Halloran dodged to his right, between the hay truck and the mortared stone wall on the driver's side. Thick metal baling wire poked out of the hay, scraping away at Kate's window with a nerve-jangling squeal, and Kate shrank away from it toward her captor. A moment later they exploded out of the constriction between stone wall and hay, and swerved on down the road, Halloran fighting to regain control of the car's trajectory. Kate had trouble turning to see, but behind them was an old tractor rumbling along, an elderly man driving. He peered at Halloran's quickly disappearing car, then glanced back at his towering hay load, but didn't bother to stop driving.

Halloran chuckled. "We'll be on the R116 in no time, and then we've lost them."

They wound through the dark trees for several miles (Kate wished she'd been more careful studying the whole mile/km thing), passed a little waterfall, then a bit later after some miserable twists and turns, Halloran swerved around a small boulder in the road, cursing. A little further on, after a particularly fierce turn, Halloran slammed the brakes and skidded into the road-sign marking a Y intersection right before them. The signpost broke off and slammed down on Halloran's hood, then cracked the windshield glass. He backed up, and steered the car over a little stone bridge. The signpost, which was an old wooden thing riddled with dry rot, clattered to the ground behind them.

* * *

**Kate, 9:30 pm**  
The road continued on, growing darker through the overhanging trees as the sun sank behind the hills. The constant hairpin turns, and the endless stench of trash and nicotine, had Kate regretting dinner. Her mouth filled with saliva. They passed a little roadside shrine: a homemade cross decked with flowers and RIP, the shiny but flat remains of an old mylar balloon, a votive candle long unlit, something that might have been a teddy bear. People died on roads like this.

"Look," she said. "Either you open this window or I vomit all over your car."

"JaysusfuckinChrist, woman, will you shut it."

"Well, could you have had the courtesy to clean your fucking car before you kidnapped a pregnant woman?"

_Fuck_. She hadn't meant to say that.

He looked at her sidelong, and her heart went cold with fear. She'd wondered if he knew, if Castle or his team – _their_ team - had mentioned it. He looked surprised, but not in a sympathetic, _'well, that changes everything'_ way.

"Hah," he rasped, and chuckled drily. "That makes it even better."

He switched his brights on and accelerated into a turn.

"Better how?"

"Raises the price."

"_What price?"_ was all she could think. _"What does he want from us?"_

Before them the landscape opened up. To their left, the stream meandered away through a gentle, down-sloping meadow to a tree-graced, spreading valley. Above them on the right, the upthrust foothill rose steeply, but not as steep as it had been back by the hay truck. The sky above was a soft peach, the mountainsides shadowy behind them. But up ahead, some of the hilltops still basked in the setting sunlight. Far ahead, when they came through a low gap, Kate sensed a sort of glow, probably from city lights reflecting off mist. In only a half hour or so, they would be in the heart of Dublin. She didn't know the city. Maybe they'd be harder to find, but there would also be more people about. Sooner or later Halloran would have to stop the car at a populated intersection, and then she might have a reasonable chance of escaping him or, at least, attracting help.

But for now, she shut up and held on. She checked the time silently - 9:37 - and sighed. With any luck, that was Castle's team hot on their trail, but there was no way an SUV could get past that dead-slow hay truck. The road was just too narrow, for miles at a stretch.

* * *

•

**Esposito: 9:37 p.m.**  
The motorcade, led with excruciating slowness by old Lafferty's tractor, eventually came to a wider place in the road.

Rourke radioed Gashkouri: "Castle says we'll be splittin' off here. We'll follow the tractor uphill..."

"Has he feckin' lost it?"

"Actually, no. Farmer says he does it once in a while, and if that thing will make it up the slope, sure an SUV can... Anyways, you continue on the road, we'll meet up about fifteen km down the way."

They came to a turnout just after a little creek tumbled into a culvert underneath the road. It plunged down into a minor waterfall, joining a stream far below them to the left of the road.

Esposito opened his window as Gashkouri nudged her SUV past the wall of slowly moving hay. He hollered out to Castle's vehicle: "I'm not shipping you guys back to New York in a box!" just as the farm used the tractor's sturdy cattle guard to plow right through an old drystone wall. Jackson Hunt gave Esposito a sardonic salute, then he gunned the engine.

Over the noise of jostling rocks and the scrape of the metal cattle guard, they heard Lafferty's voice, deep and loud in the still air, echoing. "Not atall, only takes an hour or so to rebuild." Despite a threat of imminent overturn, Lafferty's top-heavy tractor continued up the slope, with Hunt's SUV following behind, bumping over rocks and hummocks of green grass, catching the astounded gaze of the occasional well-fed cow. Gashkouri didn't need further instruction, stomping the accelerator the moment her path was clear. Esposito watched as the tractor and SUV labored away up the slope.

Esposito saw Castle try his phone, and his own rang. "Yeah."

Castle said, "See you on the other si -"

Esposito's phone bleated to itself. No signal. Gashkouri's route plunged down to wind along the deep creekside, through a v-shaped canyon, once again over-arched by trees. She turned her siren and flashers back on, driving too damn fast, brilliantly. Esposito just prayed they wouldn't encounter any other traffic. Also that they were following the correct car. That really wasn't a given, only a hunch. And it just might turn off and hide in undergrowth, any number of places.

Gashkouri said, "Are you locked and loaded? Chances are we'll catch up before they do."

Esposito said, "I'm not shooting at their car. My partner's in there."

"I thought Castle was her partner."

"No. He's her husband. And her partner. I'm, just, well, Ryan's my partner. Ryan and I have been working with her almost eight years. We're all sort of," he shrugged. There was no better word. "Partners."

Gashkouri smiled a little. "So are you married yet?"

"No, but I..."

"Just exactly how complicated is it?"

"Actually," he shrugged a little sadly. "I'm beginning to realize it's _not_ that complicated. I mean, we like each other. We even sort of love each other, but she can be so... It's not her. She's great. But I don't think she wants to settle down."

Gashkouri said, "And you do?"

Espo glanced up the hill; even if he had been able to see through the trees, the tractor would have been obscured by the hill's rounded hips. He hoped Castle knew what he was doing.

His voice was a little heavier. "I think what it really is, she doesn't want to _settle_. For me."

"Settle?" Gashkouri frowned slightly. "You are fucking kidding me. Right?" Then she swerved the SUV violently, for no apparent reason. She said calmly, "Hold on..." as it actually rocked off its passenger side a second, jolting him sideways then slapping them back down.

"What the hell was that?"

"Sorry. Tyre-trap," she said. "Once in awhile some goddamn local embeds a boulder in the asphalt. Gives tourists a nice reason to spend the night and drop some cash on repairs. _Everybody_ wins," she snarked.

"Is that legal?" He was only half kidding.

She didn't take her eyes off the road – she never did – but she laughed. "Of course it ain't legal, ya git. What the feck do you think this is, bloody Afghanistan?"

"Compared to Manhattan, Ireland's the Wild West."

* * *

•  
**Esposito, 9:45 p.m.**

Gashkouri braked suddenly and the SUV spun a 180º, slowed only by her back bumper being torn half-off by a mortared stone wall. They were at a Y intersection. Once stilled, they sat staring breathless at a fork in the road, a narrow stone bridge leaping the stream to their right, the road turning to gravel on their left, moving away in a near-straight line over a gentle slope. Someone had recently smashed into the slim sign-pole. It was busted, the two white, arrow-shaped road signs shattered. Beyond it was a 20 foot drop into the rocky stream bed.

They got out, and Gashkouri pulled out a flashlight. The sun was down over the mountains, and although the sky was bright pink above through the trees, they were in deep twilight. She stepped toward the gravel road. It was dry and dusty. No fresh tracks.

"Ah, shite," she shrugged. "The gravel road's bumpier but more a straight line – and there's one place where it tends to wash out in winter. Not sure whether it's been patched yet."

"This is July."

"Welcome to Ireland. They'll fix it in bloody October." She waggled her strong black brows and grinned at him, then frowned over at the bridge. "The paved road winds about like fuck-all."

"Six of one, half a dozen of the other?"

"It's one thing to read a map, another to know the road itself."

Esposito went around to the back of the SUV and stomped on the twisted metal bumper until it snapped off. Gashkouri popped the hatchback, and he set it inside the SUV. It was scrap metal, but left on the road, it could be lethal to an unsuspecting driver.

He said, "So, uh, _do_ you know the roads?"

She nodded, starting the SUV again. He climbed in, and she turned to stay on the paved road, crossing the bridge. "Welcome to yer first rodeo, Pardner."

He flashed her a grin. "We'll need to work on that accent of yours, Cowgirl."

"Yee-feckin-HA!" She peeled out, and in the back cargo area of the SUV, the broken bumper thumped and banged at every single turn.

* * *

•  
**Betsy, 9:43 p.m.**

When the hay tractor and Hunt's SUV crested the hill and continued a little further down to the farmhouse, the farmer's dogs (Jake and Lulu) went absolutely insane. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in the entire dog years of their respective lives, and they weren't about to let it go by. Tiny, round Mrs. Lafferty had to collar-and-haul both dogs into the house while Betsy just sat in the SUV smiling and wagging, on her best behavior.

When the tractor pulled up by the house, the SUV stopped alongside. Lafferty told Hunt, "You lads can go down the hill faster than my old hay-wagon. But stay on the drive, it's steeper than it looks."

Betsy had needed to piddle since before they met up with the hay truck. She signaled Mo, and he told Castle, "She needs to stretch her legs. We don't have to stay on the driveway, we'll just cut across and meet you at the bottom."

* * *

**Castle, 9:45 p.m.**  
Castle opened the back door and stepped out too, stretching his own legs a moment, trying to get a sense of the landscape. Behind him, the sun had well and truly set; before him the landscape stretched in a carpet of deep greens, browns, and gray-blues, with mist beginning to form in around lakes and streams. To the northeast was the glow of a moderately-sized city and its suburbs, and beyond the dark smudge of the Irish Sea, with a cloud of drizzle hovering. He remembered the view of Dublin from the bull paddock eighty feet downslope. Back then the metropolitan area had been a bit smaller and lit with the currently fashionable orange vapor street lights; now many of those had been replaced with LEDs: less intense light, shifting toward blue-white. It made the city look a little smaller, a little colder, more remote. Rick shivered.

Mrs. Lafferty came back out again, carrying a large thermos of hot, milky black tea and some Styrofoam cups, and a bag of home-made bread that wafted up an irresistible scent of butter, cardamom, and orange peel. She handed everything off to Rourke, adding a business card:

"Lafferty's Dairy Farm,  
353-555-81465,  
Cruagh Road, County Dublin"

"I fully expect to see me thermos again," she said, fixing Rourke with a stern eye. "_Washed_."

Rourke nodded meekly. "Yes, Ma'am."

Neil Lafferty said, "Here, Mary. May I present Bono and his security detail."

Despite the low light, Rick was still wearing his sunglasses. Mary Lafferty peered up at him with small, sharp brown eyes. She was only in her mid-fifties, maybe ten years older than he, although the years and six babies had been rather hard on her. He didn't know that she'd spent a good portion of her wayward youth dancing with the punks at McGonagle's in Dublin before she settled down with a man twenty years her senior. She'd been Neil Lafferty's oral surgery nurse when he got a root canal. They shared a love of Irish football and horses, and they had five adult children, and he still made her laugh. She hadn't listened to U2 since "Pop." But she still danced around the living room once in a while when her old man wanted revving up. He was partial to _Mysterious Ways. _She figured it was the drums.

Rick bowed slightly and offered his hand. She shook it with a smile, her grip surprisingly strong. "I take it ye won't be lighting off any fireworks in our bull paddock this time."

Rick chuckled uneasily, using his best Dublin accent to answer her. "No, no. Best behavior this time." He glanced at his phone. "9:46... I'd love a chat, but we need to go find my wife."

"What, Ali's run off? I'd actually heard you was both in Africa, doin' some charity thing."

Rick was, for a moment, at a loss for words. He took off his sunglasses, fixed her with his blue eyes, and gave her his most charming smile, somehow hoping she'd give him a pass. "It's complicated."

Lafferty said, "It's not complicated. No time to waste, lad." He turned to Mary. "Our man's wife's been kidnapped."

Mary squinted at Castle. She'd seen her kids and grandkids in and out of all kinds of trouble, mostly trying to hide it from her. His smile was truly dazzling and likely had brought lesser women literally to their knees... But no. He definitely was NOT Bono, being a good 5" to 6" taller and ten years younger, having a few freckles but a slightly darker complexion. And no earring. And then there was The Hair. But his expression intrigued her. He was... exhausted, scared, angry, and hiding it so beautifully. She _knew_ his face. She just couldn't place him. She frowned a little, but then her face softened, and Castle realized it was more concern than disapproval. "I've no idea what all this is about, _Bono_..." she fixed him with a glare to rival Victoria Gates'. "but_,_ when you're ready to fill us in, we'll be glad to know the whole story."

"Yeah. Well, we need to be going," Rick said. His Dublin accent was beginning to slip.

Hunt started the SUV again, Rick shook both the Lafferty's hands again and said, "Thank you so much for the short cut. And the snacks." He climbed back in, and the SUV hurried off down the winding drive. Mrs. Lafferty gave her husband a gentle shove on the arm. "So that's yer lad who let off the fireworks?"

Lafferty beamed down the hill at the retreating SUV. "Yeh. That's him." Then, watching the SUV lurch around a bend in the drive, he sucked his teeth and muttered, "Jaysus, did you see them make that turn?"

"Mr. Lafferty, you've been had, unless that's Bono on stilts."

"You saw him with yer own eyes, missus."

"That I did, Love." She stared after the SUV, perplexed, and then she slapped her forehead with her palm. "God Almighty. That was Richard Feckin' Castle."

"Who?"

"The _writer.._." Her attention caught by the sound of a helicopter flying up the valley from Dublin, she tilted her head, puzzled. "When's the last time you saw a helicopter flyin' round here?"

He looked around. She was going to need to nag him about getting a hearing aid fitted. It was about time. "Where?"

She pointed at distant, flashing lights approaching, flying rather low over the valley, the rhythmic thudding rumor of the blades a little scary on the normally-still air. "There."

"I don't see it."

She chuckled. "Never mind, it's probably just Derrick Storm or some such folk."

"Who?"

•

* * *

**Kate, 9:48 p.m.**

It was clear to Kate that Halloran was driving much too fast on a road that challenged both his vision and his reflexes. She hung on as well as she could, bracing for impact several times as the car skidded around turns and narrowly missed a fallen rock.

They passed a white wooden sign, hand-lettered and decorated with painted green oak leaves and shamrocks:

**_"St. Brigids Well, 100 m Caution." _**

Kate wondered if Rick would have stopped the car, pulled a Sharpie out of the glove compartment, and drawn in an apostrophe. She'd seen him do it before. Her lips trembled. _"I should never have come to Ireland," _she thought._ "If anything happens to the baby..."  
_  
Castle was always quick to forgive, but even he had his limits. She said, "This is for money? Castle won't pay up unless I'm – unless we're both safe."

The car navigated yet another curve around a rocky outcrop.

"It ain't for money. Now, it's time for you to shut the fuck up and let me -"

WHOMP. The undercarriage of the car smacked against a bowling-ball sized boulder in the road. Instinctively, Kate duck-and-covered, her upper arms protecting her head, but giving herself a bit of a thump with her forgotten handcuffs as the car stilled. The car lurched, slammed down, sparking against the asphalt, and the back lifted and spun in roughly a 390º arc – still pointing roughly forward down the road, but with the driver's side well into the path of anyone coming around the blind curve. The windshield (which had barely made it through the signpost incident) flew into a million chunks of safety glass. The hatchback popped open, and a trail of garbage spewed out all over the asphalt. The front end of the car had imploded. Its drive train and battery destroyed, the engine died, and the electric locks were useless.

A bit winded and swept with nausea, Kate forced herself to stay calm, fighting first a blackout, then panic. She was cuffed, in the middle of nowhere, her kidnaper unconscious, and she could neither open the door nor reach the keys. The gun was no longer in Halloran's lap, which left her hoping it had fallen down under his seat somewhere. At least, thank God, several windows were broken, and fresh air flowed through.

She looked at her watch: 9:49 p.m.

She closed her eyes, reclined her seat back a little, and did the only thing she reasonably could do: shut up, and listen.


	42. Chapter 42

_… Keep beckoning to me  
From behind that closed door  
The maid and the mother  
And the crone that's grown old_

_I hear your voice_  
_Coming out of that hole_  
_I listen to you_  
_And I want some more_  
_I listen to you_  
_And I want some more_

_And she will always carry on_  
_Something is lost_  
_But something is found_  
_They will keep on speaking her name_  
_Some things change_  
_Some stay the same_

**_\- Meg Keene (for The Pretenders) – Hymn to Her_**

* * *

_**TooSoon chapter 42  
The Well and the Tree**_

If you're too young to remember the old Irish Spring commercials, they are SO weird. Why bring a bar of soap on a picnic?

Go to Youtube and have a look at sQk-imB1m2k . Worst Irish accents EVER.

* * *

**Somewhere in County Wicklow, Ireland**

•  
**Kate, 9:53 p.m.**

The adrenaline dropped off quickly once she realized that she was unhurt but Halloran was seriously injured. Jet-lag and pregnancy taking over, Kate drifted into sleep. She dreamed there were two of her. One in the car, sleeping. The other Kate stood naked, up to her ankles in daisies and Johnny-jump-ups, in a green meadow bisected by a little creek. The creek meandered away, joined by a rivulet spilling from a grass-covered structure about the size of a pop-up food truck. (The kind of truck where you might get tacos, or garlic noodles, or … wait, this wasn't actually a food truck, that was just Small being hungry again.) It was an ancient little "beehive" cell, a grotto made of stone stacked into a gentle rounded shape like a tall igloo then covered with sod. Even on that curved, sloping surface, flowers grew. Forget-me-nots, cowslips, maidenhair fern, cranesbill, and lilies-of-the-valley clustered around the dark slit of a doorway.

Kate-in-the-meadow turned to Johanna, who stroked her hair tenderly and said, "Take the light with you," and handed her a candle. It lit on its own when transferred into her hand. The glow lit Johanna's face, and the white linen of her simple long gown. Kate's mom reached out and brushed her cheek tenderly, sweeping a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Thanks, Mom."

Kate turned and walked into the darkness of the grotto, then stopped.

Wait. _What?_

_**"MOM?"**_

She stuck her head back out, but Johanna wasn't there: just the green meadow, and beyond it the wrecked car out on the road. Kate saw her own body reclined back in the passenger seat, eyes closed, peaceful. A man – what was his name, Callahan? Halloran - had collapsed over the steering wheel, his face obscured by the airbag. The car had spun, the trunk had popped open when it hit a beech tree, and trash had acted like shrapnel, scattering all over the road, the bits of paper and mylar candy wrappers drifting gracefully as little angels on the gentle updraft.

No flames. Kate-in-the-car was safe enough, as long as Halloran was still unconscious. She thought wryly, _"With any luck, he's dead."_ So, no inhibitions in dreamland.

Kate put her hand to her forehead and watched Kate-in-the-car try to raise her cuffed hands then drop them back in her lap. She had a bit of a headache. Kate-in-the-car sat up stiffly a moment, then laid her head back against the headrest, just breathing.

Kate-in-the-grass heard a little voice behind her: "Hi."

She turned. It was a small person, or at least it felt like a small child, but she couldn't so much see it as feel it, a tiny dancing energy around her. She held up the flickering candle, and the child flitted about in the dark passageway, like Peter Pan's shadow, without substance. Small announced, "We twirled around!" and laughed.

Kate nodded, hopeful. "You're still with me?"

"It was fun." The little blur paused. "You want me to stay?"

"Please." She felt her abdomen. There was no pain. She still felt a little nauseous.

"Good," said the child. "We want to play."

"We?"

"He told you, that little man. _We_. Not right away, I want you all to myself a while."

Kate smiled. The possibility for joy. The possibility of magic. The coffee stain on a letter from the future. Maybe two children, maybe three counting Alexis. "Why are we here?"

"The water! I'm thirsty."

She followed Small further into the tiny hut, which turned out to be more of a vestibule for a cave that went down ancient stone stairs and back into the hillside, a more-or-less straight passage deep between straight-sided, natural basalt columns. One side was lined with shallow shelves, and on the shelf were hundreds of offerings: bottles of whiskey, wine and holy water. Necklaces, bracelets, belts. Little statues, crucifixes, rosaries, a tiara missing a few rhinestones. She saw several crosses hand-woven of rushes, wheat straw or corn husk. Many photos and a few little miniature paintings, mostly of young women. A few dolls. A pair of white satin high-heeled shoes, with a little mud and grass stain still clinging. Candles of all sizes and colors burned but gave off no warmth, a tiered wall of light twinkling in the soft, damp air.

At one end was a deep, mossy, stone-lined hole, a little well where her own candlelight flickered alone on dark water. She saw her own face as another would see it, objectively beautiful, reflected on the gently rippling surface, golden skin and chocolate shadow, wide-eyed, curious. And behind her shoulder, another face, gray and rotting, the hair wild and white beneath a shroud-like hood, skin shredded, gums receding, the teeth sharp but cracked and yellowed. Around the sunken, desiccated eyes, something ancient, hollow and sad lurked - not so much evil as lost, forgotten, forgetting. Or perhaps remembering the wrong things.

Kate gasped and whirled, saw nothing, but heard the sort of cackle that belongs in a fantasy movie, most likely with under-dressed sacrificial girls and talking animals. She saw a half-rotten hand in a ragged sleeve, trailing along the wall like a bony spider at the edge of her candlelight, moving away into the shadows. A dry voice whispered: "Follow me."

Rick had told her about the nutty dreams, the moments underground when he'd traveled between fantasy and reality. Kate almost chuckled; his description of Mephistopheles was a lot more attractive than the creature she'd seen. "Hey," she said. "Come back. I have a question." She wondered why she wasn't afraid. _"Oh yeah - dreaming, Beckett."_

Following, a bend in the passage surprised her. She held the candle out before her, braced in her hands as she would the butt of a pistol, letting it lead the way. She noticed its flame was steady and golden-white, although the stirred air currents of her sudden motion should have blown it out.

Around the bend, a veiled woman stood, lost in thought, looking at the offerings, touching one here, another there. Then it seemed that the Lady in the veil (and yes, she seemed to merit a capital L) was not one woman, but many, a thousand ghosts, a thousand hands and candles, gestures and whispers: girls, mothers, middle-aged, ancient, young, silly, giggling, wise, angry, gentle, fierce, thoughtful, patient, nurturing, willing to kill or die for those they loved. Kate watched Her/Them, fascinated. There were faces she knew; briefly her mother and her Nonna; Grandmother Beckett too, (sternly disapproving as usual); faces of the women 3XK had killed; some of the women whose murders she had solved. She saw a wild-looking warrior woman with long black braids, blue facial tattoos, and dented leather armor; some historic queens; Amelia Erhart, Susan Anthony, Monroe, Garbo, Shearer and both Hepburns. Tiffany Ross was not yet among their thousand faces.

Kate had endless questions, but only one stood clearly to her: "How do we find Tiffany?"

They/She turned to Kate, Their/Her faces surprised, amused, sympathetic, tragic, frustrated, uncomprehending, all-knowing. They/She said, "You are asking the wrong Person."

"Whom do I ask?"

Some of Her/Them tutted, derisive; others frowned, a couple laughed. One, petite and childlike, clearly wanted to help: "You're supposed to make an offering, silly." She reached for a toy on the shelf, a wind-up clockwork rabbit on a tricycle.

"I don't even believe in this stuff."

"Then what do you believe in?"

Some of Them laughed at that, then They took no further notice of Kate. They/She turned away to pore over Their hoard of offerings, blending into Few, drifting into One, and then She was gone as well. One by one, the candles started going out. Kate felt a sudden, cold panic, still clutching her lit candle, and she rounded another bend (really, the path had been straight on the way in. Hadn't it?). Then another, and another. It was getting darker, when she should have already been outside in the bright world. Her candle went out. She was alone, in the dark.

She heard his voice. "KATE!"

A voice that could call her back from heaven or hell or anything in between. "Beckett?"

What had she said once? _"I believe in Richard Castle."_ Not that he was God or anything.

"_Kate?_" His voice was ragged with fear.

Of course, she could do nothing but follow. She saw the pale-blue glow of twilight sifting in from the grotto entrance. She stepped out into chill evening, the first stars glimmering in the cobalt-blue sky. Her candle was gone altogether. She looked up, and a military-green helicopter hovered above, very still, and she heard a slow, deep noise:  
whummmbbbbbbbh  
whummmbbbbbbbh  
whummmbbbbbbbh

It was the infinitesimally slow sound of the rotor blades turning. She could see them, like a four-handed clock face, in crystal clear focus. As they rotated inch by inch, the stars disappeared behind them and reappeared, always there, marking their own slow version of time. There was no reason the helicopter should not have dropped out of the sky, but there it was, a sort of miracle. The man piloting the helicopter was Castle's old friend, Matt, staring down at the crash scene, his crystal-blue eyes anxious. She wanted to wave, but she was too tired.

She looked around. Across the paved street was a narrow gravel drive with a chipped, turquoise, tube-steel gate. About 20 feet up the drive, she spied a familiar SUV enhanced with a gumball, blue lights flashing (and I can't even begin to describe what light looks like when you slow it down!), suspended in mid-air as it careened down toward the road, pebbles flying. Castle, already out of the SUV, had run ahead to open the gate, wrestling against its weight.

**Betsy, 9:59 p.m.**  
Betsy sniffed around on the side of the driveway awhile, then piddled politely on the biggest dandelion she'd ever seen. Then she and Mo began loping downhill, and the evening breeze drafted up from the meadow below. Betsy stopped a moment, sniffing the air. "_Bunnies, cattle, more bunnies, chickens - a goose? - ground squirrels, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT, the barn cats, dandelions, no snakes – why? - milk, a bull wafting testosterone and frustration and loneliness_," and faint, so faint, so far away but getting closer: the garbage car and...

"KATE! Kate Kate _KATE!"_

Betsy bayed triumphantly. Together she and Mo charged down the steep, grassy hill, vaulting over low stone walls, finding themselves in the bull paddock and having to outrun Mr. Diddles, Lafferty's immense Guernsey breeding sire. Hunt's SUV was uphill from them now on the winding drive. Kate's extremely faint scent grew molecule by molecule, parts per quadrillion. At the top of a little rise they looked down the hill to the road. They could see the Escort had already skidded to a stop, the trash strewn like a comet's tail behind it. Mo said, "Oh, holy shit." He pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Esposito. It went to voice mail. He and Betsy hurtled down the hill, with Mo praying he'd be able to stop Gashkouri's car in time before she rounded the curve.

•

**Kate, 10:01 p.m.**

From the grotto path, Kate-in-the-grass saw Mohammed Atta and Betsy leaping over the stone wall, all four of Betsy's feet off the ground, her ears outspread like wings, grinning with full dog-joy, flecks of drool spreading out around her muzzle like snowflakes frozen in time. Betsy's bay drew out in an endless note on the air, the sound elastic and flowing: "BWWWWWHHHHORRRRRRRRRFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!"

**Kate, 10:01 p.m.  
**As if flying herself, Kate found herself looking down the hill from inside Hunt's SUV, saw Gashkouri's SUV navigating curve after curve on the road she'd just traveled, overlapping like a slide show. She saw the trail of garbage left by Halloran's car, and Esposito's wide eyes, the realization about the trash, Esposito pointing and yelling "_STOP!_", and Gashkouri slamming the brakes, her SUV fishtailing wildly and stopping about a foot away from the Escort. Had the trail of junk not been there, Gashkouri would have T-boned the Escort and plowed right through it, obliterating Halloran and smashing Kate into the stone wall. As it was, between the helicopter and the SUV, the discarded napkins and bits of wrapper danced and twirled like proud 3-year-olds at their first ballet recital.

Gashkouri backed up, using her vehicle as a warning to any cars that might be approaching from behind, and shut off her engine, pressing her palms into her eyesockets.

"Oh, holy fucking fuck," she moaned.

Esposito patted her shoulder. "That was amazing. Pop the hatchback, I'll get the flares started."

Kate-in-the-car smiled. "Wow." Opened, then closed her eyes again, and there was Rick's voice, deep and clear, straight to her heart, louder than thunder but safe as houses.

"_Please._ Kate, wake up."

**Kate, 10:02 p.m.**

She opened her eyes, and there was Castle, his beautiful, anxious face so close, his right hand reaching in through the broken window to pat her cheek softly. For a moment, she couldn't quite verbalize his name. She remembered first _Love_. Then Castle, then her voice rasped "Rick." She wanted to raise her hands to touch him, but they felt like lead and her wrists were sore. She smiled at him, but her mouth was stone dry; she couldn't say more.

He moved aside, but kept his hand on her shoulder. That nice man hovered over her - what was his name? Hunt Jackson? Jackson Hunt. That wasn't his real name, and he wasn't that nice. He had some kind of magical metal thingy – unlocked her door in seconds. Castle stepped back while Hunt opened the door. Disoriented, Kate wanted Rick, and turned, looking for him.

Now Hunt's voice was firm with her, and he was flashing light into her eyes. "Follow my fingers."

"Where are they going?" she rasped, scowling back and forth in sheer irritation, giving his waggling fingers a death glare.

He seemed oddly pleased about that, smiling grimly. "What day is it?"

She tried to swallow, hating that familiar sensation of her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Castle said, "Can I give her a little water?"

Hunt nodded, and Castle touched a bottle to her lips. "Easy, Beckett. Just wet your mouth, we don't know if you have internal injuries."

She sipped, and sighed. "Thanks. Thursday? July 3?"

"Great. Can you wiggle your fingers and toes?"

"Of course I can, I was just napping a little." She glanced down at her dad's watch, which was jangling uncomfortably against the cuffs. Her head had cleared, the dream pushed to the back of her mind. "10:04 p.m. We're running out of time, Castle."

"I don't care," he choked. He pressed fingers over his eyes, embarrassed that his father The Secret Agent would see him like this. Hunt – who actually envied Castle's sensitive nature - busied himself uncuffing and unbuckling Beckett.

They went through all the checkpoints for injury; she was able to move her legs just fine, she'd had the lap belt properly low and tight across her hipbones and felt no pain; not even her collar bone was bruised by the shoulder belt. Her worst injury was embarrassment that she'd been kidnapped.

Halloran, on the other hand, looked like he'd been hit in the face by a giant plastic fist. His glasses were broken, his nose bloodied, and he'd bitten clean through his lower lip. Nauseated, Kate looked away.

"I want to get out," she scowled.

Rick held her down, as gently as possible. "Wait. There's an ambulance already on its way with the local PD. Should be here in five."

"It stinks in here," she practically whined. "And I'm fine." She scowled at Castle, then at Hunt. "You want me to spew all over the car?"

They exchanged resigned shrugs, Castle backed off, and Beckett sat up. She swung herself out of the seat and let them help her up, more for their own peace of mind than needing it. Aside from feeling a little stiff and shaky, she was just _so_ happy to get out of that wretched car.

Betsy barked once in greeting, doing the dance of "Kate, there you are, _good girl_, Kate!" and wagging. Mo was trying to keep her on the side of the road, away from the scattered broken glass.

Castle took Kate's arm and walked her over to Hunt's SUV, signaling Mo to meet them there. They both gave Betsy liberal tummy rubs, and Kate said, "Oh, did you find me? Good girl!"

Mo gave Betsy a treat and said to her, "Hey, Bets. Let's see if you can catch a rabbit (it had never happened yet, but she was a natural optimist). They took off for a little jaunt over to the helicopter, which was in the southwest of the large meadow, somewhat obscured by oaks and beeches that lined the road.

Castle leaned against the SUV and took Kate into his embrace. She cuddled in close to him, felt him suppress a sob. He kissed her hair, then held her a little away from him, examining her face. "How are you feeling, Kate? Really?"

She beamed up at him. "Actually, kind of amazing. Took a little nap while I was waiting for you."

His face crumpled, near tears. She took his jaws between her hands and leaned in, her eyes serious, her voice reassuring. "No pain. The baby's fine."

"Are you sure? You should go to the hospital."

"I can't be 100 percent sure, but, from what I've learned, nothing is 100 percent, ever. Right?"

He nodded, his breath hitching on a sigh. They got into the SUV and Castle gave her a little more water. She caught a whiff of Mrs. Lafferty's cardamom bread and opened the bag. It exhaled sweet, aromatic, buttery goodness. "Ohmigod. I'm starving."

He looked at her anxiously. "You might have internal injuries?"

She grinned and shook a clenched fist at him, clearly teasing. "You want some of your own? Try to keep me from eating this." But she took only a small bite, humoring his concern.

They were both too tall for her to sit in his lap in the car, and although she was tired, he was nervous about letting her fall asleep if she might have a concussion. So they sat cuddling, and he told her the story of Farmer Lafferty and his formerly punk-rock wife, doing all the voices and pretending to be Betsy. Kate laughed so hard she almost peed.

He said, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be making you laugh."

She grinned. "Best medicine," and kissed him. She tasted like orange and spice.

**10:09 p.m.**  
With a scream of sirens, a couple of police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance came up the way from Dublin. Matt had seen the situation as the copter approached the scene of the accident, and called for help, then radioed Hunt to confirm and warn him about what they'd find at the bottom of the drive.

Hunt cared more about Kate than he did about Halloran, and made a tall, skinny, black-haired paramedic named Lorcan come over to examine her first. Kate lay on the SUV's back seat and lifted up her tunic and camisole, taking the waistband of her yoga pants down to her hipbones. Lorcan was able to find Small's tiny heartbeat (psssh-psssh-psssh-psssh-psssh) with a portable fetal Doppler and also checked Kate out thoroughly. "Well, Missus, ye'r in better shape than I am," quipped the paramedic. "No headache, vision's good, memory's sharp, quick reflexes, even breathing, and steady heartbeat for you and that little bun in your oven."

He jerked a thumb over at Halloran's totaled Escort, where the fire department was using a Jaws of Life rig to pry open the driver's side door. Halloran was still alive, but so far gone he didn't react when they discovered his right leg had been turned into hamburger, and the only thing preventing him from bleeding to death was a piece of sheet metal pressed against a severed artery. But Rick and Kate had no way of knowing that at the time.

Lorcan added, "Now, I heard you're a officer of some kind, but nobody wants you ta see that poor aul' fella in your delicate state. You stay back, yeh?" And he was off to his next task.

Rick nodded, his eyes twinkling at her. "Delicate state."

Kate took his hand. "Look, I'm sorry, but I have to pee again. Keep me company?"

"Yeah. Hey, Jackson? We're gonna find her some fresh air." He stepped close to his dad and murmured, "Can I borrow your lock pick in case I need to get Kate into the bathroom?"

Hunt twinkled at his son. "You don't have one of your own?"

"Left it at the hotel."

"Some secret agent you are," Hunt chuckled then looked up at the sky. "Fifteen minutes, tops." He was drinking a cup of Mrs. Lafferty's tea, eating a hunk of bread, watching the rescue effort with professional interest, but staying out of the way.

Down at the copter, Mo, Gashkouri, and Esposito were comparing notes. Matt had set the copter down lower in the meadow, not exactly hidden, but not obvious either, its form obscured by surrounding tall trees.

Rourke was working with the locals to write up the incident report, starting out by knocking on the Escort's hood and sighing, "Well, folks, this ruddy tip's banjaxed." He wasn't going to be home before 2 a.m. None of them were.

**Kate, 10:28 pm**

Although she'd never been there, Kate led Rick a little way down the road, wondering if her dream reflected anything like reality. They saw yet another sign, painted white pine and hand-made lettering in black and Kelly green:

"_Welcome to Saint Brigids Well  
All are welcome here  
Please keep Ireland tidy!"_

Castle huffed disapprovingly. "They forgot the apostrophe."

Kate nodded. "Richard Castle, Punctuation Enforcer to the Free World." There was a gravel lot with room for a tour bus, and a little stone cottage with a sign board,

"_Gift's_".

Of course the gift shop was closed, but they'd left the porch light on, and there was another, lower-wattage floodlight on the landscape behind the cottage. Castle thought that was a hopeful sign. They went around to the back, and found the built-on restrooms, marked "Ladie's" and "Gentlemans'". Kate giggled. Castle's fingers positively twitched.

The restrooms were unlocked (Castle was actually glad he didn't have to break in even though he needed the practice). The ladies' room was fairly dark, but a high window gave Kate enough light that she could see herself in the mirror, looking delicate and ghostly pale. She switched the light on, and a moth fluttered around the bare fluorescent bulb. Kate grimaced at herself in the mirror. Fluorescents never make anyone look good, and she'd been through the wringer. But she felt warm from the inside out, and safe. She heard Castle go into the restroom, finding his familiar manly sounds oddly comforting, as if they were at home.

He called out, "Honey? Pull my finger?"

Kate laughed. "You're on your own." Sharing a bathroom can be a romantic thing, and it can also be quite a wake-up call as to the nature of the human condition.

"Aww, you're no fun." He sang as he flushed and washed his hands. "Something died in here, Kum-Bay-Yaaa..." and was rewarded by her cackle from the next room. Fortunately she was already on the toilet when he made her laugh; the pressure on her bladder was surprising, so early in the pregnancy, but according to her OB-GYN, it was in the normal range.

She smirked at the sign above the paper roll. (Apparently someone had time on their hands: the calligraphy on all the signs was amateurish but neat, clearly a labor of love.)

"_Please keep restroom's tidy!"_

She washed up, and wiped the filthy car's grime off her face and neck with a dampened paper towel. When she emerged, Castle was standing with his back to her, staring at the path to the well.

It was both like and unlike what she had seen in her dream. The path was paved with chunks of slate, and hedges on either side sported hundreds, no, thousands of little prayer rags in every color under the sun. Some were bright, some faded, some shredded nearly to bare, tangled threads. The path opened to a circular patio area, with a fairly new Celtic cross at the center, lit from below with a floodlamp. Kate and Rick joined hands and walked over to it. There was a little bronze plaque - the official governmental kind:

"_This Ancient Well  
Sacred since Time Immemorial, _

_and Shrine, were _

_Dedicated to Saint Brigid, 928 A.D.  
restored by Irish Tourist Board, 1992 A.D."_

and below that, a similar caption in Gaelic.

"That explains it," Rick said.

"What?"

"I came through in the 80s. I don't remember the cross or plaque. I do remember that tree, though." There was an immense native Sessile oak, close to 80 feet tall and over 700 years old, in full midsummer leaf. The trunk was at least seven feet across. It had side branches, horizontal to the ground and in some places even arching down to touch earth, that were nearly as big around as a grown man. Castle said, "I read somewhere online, this one's listed as the "42nd of the Fifty Grandest Trees In Ireland."

The tree didn't necessarily care about its placement in the competition.

Beckett scrunched her face. "Forty-two. _Really_?"

"Might be a little fuzzy about its ranking. But come look." They heard a faint tinkling of bells when the breeze brushed through the leaves. They stepped under the tree, or more like, into it. "See?" Rick said. "It's covered with talismans." Up to about 30 feet, just past the height at which any sensible mother would say, _"That's far enough, young man,"_ the branches were festooned with hundreds of strips of cloth, beads, ribbons with bells on them, baby bibs, necklaces and bracelets, tennis shoes, all kinds of mementos, even more thickly than on the walkway in.

Delighted, Kate asked, "Was it like this when you visited?"

Rick shook his head. "No and yes. The cottage was derelict, there was no path, no cross. Not a single sign. No misplaced apostrophes whatsoever. But there was a lot of stuff up in the tree. I thought about camping here overnight but..." he shrugged. "It was kind of a ratty place back then. It was July Fourth and I was homesick in the middle of nowhere. So I went up the hill and shot off some fireworks."

"Where'd you get them?"

He looked a little embarrassed. "Stole them out of the pyrotechnics trailer during the shoot."

"Lucky you didn't wind up shooting yourself to the moon." Kate squeezed his hand and said, "Let's have a look at the well."

"There wasn't much to it."

"That may have changed, too."

Past the tree, the ground sloped down suddenly, obscuring the bowl-shaped cove from the street above. They descended modern concrete steps, and followed the path over a stone footbridge arching over a merrily burbling stream. The stream and path both curved back toward the bluff-side, which was completely obscured from the road. Kate got chills. There was indeed a cave there, but it was shallow and niche-shaped with a water-worn rock overhang. At the most, it was maybe seven feet deep and 15 wide. But she must have seen photos of it before somewhere, maybe on a tourist pamphlet when researching their honeymoon, because there was a distinct resemblance to her dream. There were statues, photos, dolls and stuffed animals, offerings of all kinds, dozens of candles burned out, a few candles still lit even at this late hour...

Castle said, "Yeah, there was no bridge here, and no shrine. Just a pile of junk and a wet hole in the wall. See?" He pointed. "They used concrete to channel the stream; this was a seep, more than a spring."

Kate said somewhat apologetically, "I think we're supposed to make an offering." She patted her yoga pants pocket. "Left my wallet in my purse."

"Oh, sorry. Espo remembered to grab your purse out of our room. It's in the car."

"Good," she said. "I have some of those McVitie's ginger biscuits in there." Her stomach rumbled a little.

Castle pulled out a 20 euro note and dropped it into the rusty tithe box. On the honor system, there were clear glass votive pillars in a scratched plexiglass case, along with long stick matches; Rick lit one, Kate lit another on the same match, and they stepped into the alcove, the light from their candles joining the few other faint flames.

"Why are we here again?" Rick whispered. His voice echoed off the parabolic rock face. He felt a ridiculous urge to sing something.

"Maybe I'm just thirsty?" Water was literally bubbling out of a crack in the wall and into a handmade earthenware basin glazed with oak leaves and a woven cross, the symbols of St. Brigid. The water overflowed into the headwater of the streamlet they had just crossed. There was a stand with paper cups, and a metal dipper. And of course, a nice little sign:

_"Please help keep Saint Brigids Shrine Tidy!_  
_Do not throw coin's in the Fountain_  
_Our Lady is watching you!"_

and yet ANOTHER nice little sign. Kate read it aloud, her voice echoing amongst the rocks, even though neither of them was Catholic or of the praying kind:

_"Prayer to St. Brigid_

_Brigid you were a voice for the wounded and the weary._  
_Strengthen what is weak within us._  
_Calm us into a quietness that heals and listens._  
_May we grow each day_  
_into greater wholeness in mind, body and spirit."_

Castle said, "Do you have a pen?"

She shook her head. "The missing comma is not our responsibility." She picked up the dipper, and poured Rick a cup of water.

Rick was about to say something, but stopped himself, waiting for her. Now was not the time for him to bring up his fears of amoebic dysentery and giardia, or quibbles about apostrophes and use of the Oxford comma, or the discomfiture of being at a religious shrine without being a believer. Kate's Italian ancestors, and Rick's Irish, had left devout Catholicism behind a couple of generations ago, so while they felt little reverence, they were respectful of heritage. Kate poured a cup for herself and replaced the dipper on its hook. They linked their wrists and toasted silently with the white paper cups backlit and glowing with candlelight. They drank. The water had the slightly-sweet mineral aftertaste of baking soda, and fizzed slightly. But it didn't taste like iron or salt or sulphur, as some spring water does.

•

**10:30 p.m., Somewhere Inside Kate**  
Small appreciated the drink greatly, and utilized the mineral content to reinforce the budding spinal column that daily grew more defined. The timing was perfect.  
•

Castle was pleasantly surprised. "It's better than I would have expected."

Looking at Rick over her cup, his face lit by candles and shadowed by twilight, Kate was blinking back tears.

His voice was gentle, his hand on her shoulder. "Hey. It's okay."

"I'm so sorry, Castle. I've just slowed you down. I wanted to come with you. I _want_ to go with you now, but..."

He shook his head. "We're together right now. We'll be together again."

She nodded, her throat aching. "You're taking the copter?"

They both felt strange. Both were still accustomed to Kate taking the lead, figuring out the logistics. Changing the steps of the dance was always a little trying. Castle decided to keep it upbeat. "We found a private helipad at a hotel in Dublin. Hunt arranged flight clearance this afternoon."

"When will I meet up with you?"

"Rourke will take you back to the hotel tonight so you can get some rest. We'll meet you and Ryan and Teresa in Dublin tomorrow night, and we'll have Tiffany with us."

"You're so sure."

He smiled wryly, massaging her shoulder with a warm, reassuring hand. "I'm not. It's just what I tell myself."

Kate poured herself another dipper of water. "This stuff is great."

She offered him more, and he shook his head. "I don't want to slosh all over the Irish countryside." He crumpled his cup and chucked it into the trash container. "Made the team."

They spent another moment looking at the eclectic pile of offerings to St. Brigid. Castle picked up a pair of tiny baby shoes, examined them wistfully, then set them back down. Beckett's eye was caught by a glint, and she picked up a cheesy little dollar-store cast-resin figurine. (Not that she'd ever been in a dollar store) It was a bunny, riding a bicycle. She shivered with deja vu.

She set it down and asked idly, "Whatever happened to your bike?"

"What, my motorcycle? You saw it at the barn. It's in storage." He'd ridden it a couple of times, but wasn't crazy about the whole wiping-out-on-oily-gravel aspect. The road had, indeed, risen up to meet him, just like in the Irish blessing. Someday he wanted to take a long motorcycle trip with Beckett. With him sitting on the back of her Harley, his arms wrapped around her waist, exactly where they belonged.

"No, the bike you rode to Dublin. Was it a mountain bike?"

Castle took her hand, and they left the grotto, leaving their candles behind, two flames dancing in the darkness. He said, "Nope. Touring. I left it chained up on Grafton street when I met up with Michael. He knew some buskers..." he shrugged. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking about you, riding around the countryside all alone on your ugly orange bike, nobody to talk to. You must have been a bit lonely."

"It wasn't ugly, it was a Reynolds 531!" They were about to bypass the oak tree, but without warning, Beckett towed Castle underneath its branches again.

**10:30 p.m. **

•Having set out the flares and wanting to avoid too many questions from the local cops, Esposito, Mo, and Betsy ambled through the damp green grass to Matt's copter. Matt, who'd gotten them from the States to Ireland with little trouble then laid low until needed, stepped out, set his earphones on the seat, stretched and grinned. "Find anything?"

Esposito looked over at the cars. "Yeah. Plenty of trouble. You heard from Ryan? No reception around here."

"Ryan sent me looking for you when he couldn't raise you on the radio." He looked around anxiously. "I called in the emergency services, but I really don't want to explain why I don't have an Irish pilot's license."

Esposito said, "You seen Castle or Beckett?"

Matt shrugged and hid a smile, inclining his head toward the shrine's little parking lot. "I think they went down to check out the tourist trap. You might wanna give 'em a few minutes."

Esposito rolled his eyes. "They're like rabbits."

"Can you blame them?"

He hesitated, then grinned. "Nope."

* * *

**10:32 p.m.**

Gashkouri wasn't so keen to watch Halloran's amputation, and after getting a brief statement from her, Rourke was handling the locals just fine. She came over to the copter and glanced around inside, a little apprehensive. "It'll hold us all?"

Esposito nodded. "Yeah, did Rourke say it was okay for you to come with?"

"Since you're dealing with a kidnapped woman..."

"Good," Esposito said. He'd been through it with Kayla Twimbly. Karpowski had been invaluable. And generally, he liked working with women; they often looked a cases with a different perspective. He was hit with a pang: Beckett was changing. He knew she wouldn't be wanting to go out on calls with the team any more. End of an era.

Gashkouri said, "So what do you suppose is Mr. Castle's plan?"

Matt and Javi looked at one another.

Matt said uneasily, "I'm sure he'll think of something."

Then Esposito found himself missing Ryan. It just wasn't the same without him. "Whether it'll make any actual _sense_... hard to say."

* * *

•

**Under the tree, 10:35 p.m.**  
Neither Beckett nor Castle wanted to return to the road, the flashing lights, and the sounds of a car being sawn in half to get its driver out. So Kate had no trouble in diverting him.

His tone was warm. "I'm not feeling lonely now."

She smiled sadly. "I remember once you said you wanted to take me somewhere safe. I know how you feel."

"I've come to the sad conclusion that the only thing I can keep anyone safe from is my own worst impulses."

"What's your best impulse?"

He kissed her, steering them like a dance, stepping with care over tangled gray roots until his back was against the immense, mossy tree trunk. They were well hidden from casual observation, not just by the trunk but also by the low, spreading branches and thick leaves.

Just in case he got carried away, as always he double-checked the taser safety on his high-tech cast. She appreciated the gesture, taking his right hand and kissing the back of his knuckle, then his fingers. "Can't wait till this thing comes off for good," she said. She circled her exploring tongue around the tip of his middle finger, then sucked on it. He wasn't so sure about the timing, and squeaked, "You're so much _friendlier_ than when we first met, Detective Beckett."

"I just had some questions that needed answering. Hey, want to hear a riddle?" Her voice had changed a little, dripping with something like velvet and sex.

"Riddle? Uh, sure," he replied. She pressed in close to him, inhaling his clean scent, and in her flat shoes she had to stand tiptoe to nibble on his earlobe. How had his hands slipped under her tunic? Well, there they were, caressing the soft, stretchy bra, her nipples swelling underneath the brush of his thumbs.

She murmured, "Ryan taught me this one: 'How do the Irish handle foreplay?'" Kate's hand slid down the front of his jeans, which were feeling a tad crowded.

Rick knew the punchline and smirked, but played along. He slipped his hands under her camisole, fingers teasing against her belly, her ribs, then up and under the elastic, cupping her. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, then her lips, and moved around to her jawline, then her throat. "I dunno. How do the Irish handle foreplay?"

Then she was unbuckling his belt, opening up the button fly on his jeans, her hand sliding under the waistband of his briefs, palming him. Castle sighed and then hissed as her fingers circled him, then pulled, just exactly the way he loved it. His eyes rolled back in his head and he gritted, "Uh! Wow. I meant theoretically. Kate, we don't have ti-"

"Nope. _That's_ not Irish foreplay." She dropped to her knees and grinned up at him through the twilight, waggling her eyebrows. She added, _"Brace yourself, Kathleen!"_

* * *

•  
**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote something pretty sexy but it appears I have some readers under 18. If you are over 18 and want to read the naughty bits, please dm me. If you're under 18, sorry, I'm sure your mind is already dirtier than mine has ever been, but rules are rules ;-)  
_**

* * *

**Back at the hotel, 10:37 p.m.**  
Ryan tried Castle for the seventh time. "Why the hell isn't anyone picking up?"  
•

**Under the tree, 10:37 p.m.**  
Rick's phone buzzed against his ankle again. He didn't even notice.

•

**By the Copter, 10:37 p.m.**  
From three hundred feet away, over by the copter in the south of the meadow, Betsy knew they were having sex (also there were a couple of otters frolicking down by the creek... but that's another love story for another day). But the Swami of Smell had learned never to interrupt human humpy-time. When she'd tried sleeping on the bed when Mo had humpy-time with his wife, she'd wound up being put in her crate for the night, so she had the manners not to bother Pillow Case Rick and his hormone-swamped, darling Kate. Betsy liked the smell of happiness, but she didn't need to stick her cold wet schnozz right into the middle of it _every_ single time. Besides, she could smell rabbits _everywhere_.

**Under the Tree, 10:38 p.m.**  
•They'd made love outside a few times at the cabin and poolside at the Hamptons house, and once, very slowly and discreetly under a blanket on a steamy night, on the roof at the loft. It had been fun, and naughty, and hot.

This was different. Oh, it was hot all right, but now that they weren't kidding around, it was with a streak of melancholy, a fight against their coming separation, that seemed to well up around them like the gathering mist. There was a heady smell of grass and dew, leaf and moss, as if the world around them was alive and breathing. Their quick liaison had gone from a silly romp to something primal, private, animal, dark, just them, warm against the chill of night, hidden in the branches of a tree that seemed older than time. They gave in and let their lovemaking wholly consume them.

They _needed_ this. If the entirety of the Irish police force and everyone else they knew showed up then and there, neither Rick nor Kate would have stopped. Because if things went wrong, if Rick made the wrong move and somehow got killed trying to rescue a Long Island veterinary assistant from murderous kidnappers...  
Maybe it was their last time.

Their

last

time.

* * *

•

**In the meadow, 10:47 p.m.**  
Esposito glanced over at the old oak tree, which wasn't more than a blotchy black silhouette against the tourist trap's lights. He barely caught a movement in the lower branches, and said, "What is that, a deer or somethin'?"

Matt said, "Might have been a deer." He had excellent eyesight. The corner of his mouth quirked. An owl suddenly burst out of the tree's crown with an irritated hoot, and glided silently over the meadow, hoping to find some fat little mice for second breakfast.

Gashkouri said, "Those shrine trees are supposed to be haunted. I don't go anywhere near them." She shivered.

**Somewhere in Kate's inner reaches, 10:37-10:49 p.m.**  
Small enthused, "Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy!" and kept on with the business of assembling a working nervous system. Small was having a grand time in Ireland.

**Under the tree, 10:49 p.m.**  
Kate turned to face him, her kiss deep and achingly tender. "I love you," she said. She was smitten with an understanding of how military spouses must feel when their soldiers go off to war. "I'm scared, and I'm so goddamn proud of you."

He nodded, barely choked out, "I love you, too," and pulled her in even closer. They clung together for a while, both of them leaning against the trunk, skin to skin, sweat to sweat, catching their breath, heart rates slowing, kissing, saying the goodbye they needed to say in private. After this moment to recover, they put their clothes back where they belonged. Rick took out his handkerchief, and they wiped one another's tears, blotted the sweat from their faces, and made an attempt to smooth one another's hair. Aside from a few dampish leaves clinging to Kate's yoga pants, and a bleary aura of satiated lust, nobody would have known they'd just had sex under a tree that remembered when the last druids walked the earth (Note: the druids 700 years ago were forced to sneak around, since they would have been killed for witchcraft if caught by the Catholic authorities).

They started out of the shadows, then Kate stopped Rick. "Your handkerchief?"

"Of course." He smiled, knowing; climbed up a little ways and tied it to a branch, then jumped back down.

The oak tree never forgot their lovemaking in its embrace. It will remember them long after their grandchildren are dust.

Kate had slipped an acorn into Rick's pocket while she was down on her knees. She wanted to plant a tree like this, one day.

The tree thought that was a fine plan.

**Crash scene, 10:54 p.m.**  
The Beckett-Castles walked, arm in arm, back toward the road. "I was so worried about where we could go on our honeymoon," she sighed.

"Not a big deal anymore, is it?" he mused. "We can go anywhere, do anything. If we're together, it will always be _ours_."

She nodded. "'You never step in the same river twice'."

"Buddha, right? When did you become such a Zen master?"

"It's part of my ninja training," Kate said. She gave his butt a little squeeze.

He squeaked. "I believe it."

She added, "But you're wrong about the quote. It was Heraclitus of Ephesus."

"Heraclitus?" he grinned. "That's quite a name."

**Crash scene, 10:55 p.m.**  
The emergency crew had removed Halloran from the Escort and placed him, still unconscious, on a gurney, his head braced against sudden movement. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt and the airbag had broken his nose and bruised his chest. He was still alive, but had lost his lower right leg below the knee, and it appeared his back might be broken. As quickly as possible, they loaded him into the ambulance and took off toward St. Philomena's Hospital and Trauma Center, accompanied by one of the local gardai patrol cars.

This left Rourke and a local Gardai officer, Sergeant Margaret Byrne, to take their statements. Byrne, who was fine-boned and blue-eyed, looked as if she could have been Ryan's elder sister, and she was (unbeknownst to anyone in particular) his fourth cousin twice removed on his mother's side, although that wasn't evident at the time. Rourke had filled Byrne in on the situation for the most part, figuring that if Halloran was a potential serial killer, this was an important factor the locals would need to know to ensure the safety of ambulance and hospital staff.

Kate sat in the back seat of the SUV, wearing Rick's jacket, munching on Mrs. Lafferty's bread. She looked around for some water. Growing a baby and screwing al fresco can be very thirsty work.

Rick poured her a cup of tea. She shook her head, "No, I shouldn't. Caffeine."

Byrne snorted. "Nonsense, Mrs. Castle. You're knackered. How d'ye think I got through three pregnancies and still made Sergeant?"

Kate gave in with a smile and sipped the hot, astringent drink gratefully. As the air began to really chill, it was _exactly_ what she needed. Not all the time, of course! But yes, just then, as the Irish mist wound up the valley from the stream. Kate gazed off across the meadow at the oak tree. Its lower branches were shrouded in mist. The helicopter, off to her left a little ways and downslope, was altogether invisible.

Rourke said, "Mrs. Castle, what can you tell us about Halloran?"

Kate shook her head, mystified. "I don't think he really wanted _me_. It seemed like he wanted to use me toward another end. He said," she pressed a hand against her forehead and tried to remember. "He said I'd buy him answers."

"About what?"

"I really don't know."

Castle's phone buzzed and he beamed at it. "Detective Ryan. You really are good."

"Yeah, I know," Ryan said. "Matt said you'd found Beckett. She okay?"

"I'll put you on speaker."

Kate smiled at Rick's phone. "Hey, Ryan."

"Man, you scared the crap outta us, Beckett," he said.

Her reminder was crisp: "Speaker phone, Detective Ryan?"

"Oh, yeah. Ok. Turns out Halloran actually was a cop, lost his job in 1993, been in and out of trouble ever since."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Well, he was a detective in, uh, Cork. Mostly robbery, but there was a string of serial killings, and he got pressed into working a murder detail when hysteria started to hit."

Byrne said tightly, "I grew up in the area. Countryside Ripper?"

"That's the one. Halloran got sucked into a cat-and-mouse with a serial killer, one... Patrick Fitzwilliam."

Rourke rolled his eyes. "Jayus. There's a cheesy name for yez."

Castle and Kate exchanged a glance, waiting for O'Shaunessy's name to come up. He said, "Go on."

"Halloran beat a confession out of Fitzwilliam. He was convicted for a particularly gruesome rape-and-murder. Ritual stuff, complete with select body-part cannibalism."

Kate winced and took a sip of tea, holding the warm cup between her hands for comfort. She was suddenly very grateful indeed for the caffeine – she wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep for a week.

Ryan continued, "Then Fitzwilliam got shanked in prison."

"Not the end of the story?"

"After Fitzwilliam was killed, Halloran's wife was raped and murdered the _exact_ same way. You do not wanna hear the details."

Castle's face was grim. "His wife? The MO's too familiar."

He was sitting right next to Kate, his body slightly crowding her. She just leaned into him, felt the restlessness under his skin. She said, "Ryan, How about DNA?"

"Ireland was still working that out, a little behind the US. They never found a match in the system. When it got updated, they found somehow the samples were mysteriously destroyed in evidence holding."

Castle and Beckett exchanged an anxious glance. That MO, too, was familiar.

Rourke was obviously drawing a blank, but the whole situation clearly rang a bell with Sergeant Byrne. She was taking notes with furious speed, biting her lip.

"It gets worse," Ryan said. "Halloran's twelve-year-old son disappeared off the face of the earth a year or so after his mom's murder."

Kate blew out slowly. "Ryan, do you think he wanted to trade me for information about his kid?"

"Could be," Ryan said. "Question is, with whom? Where were you supposed to end up at the end of the line?"

Kate said, "He was taking me toward Dublin when the car crashed..."

Aunt Teresa's voice broke in on the other end of the line. "WHAT?"

"I'm okay, Aunt Tee. I promise, I'm fine. Did you call Dad?" (at this, Rourke's eyebrows shot up – he'd had no idea that Beckett and 'Agent Soames' were even related).

Teresa said, "I'm on the other line with him now. He's beside himself."

"Well, tell him I love him, tell him everything's okay, at least for now."

"Everything?" Teresa's voice shook.

Rick's voice was warm and reassuring, the way he spoke with Alexis when she got into a tizzy over something. "Everything's fine. Kate came away without a scratch. Baby's heartbeat is strong."

They could hear the ebullient grin in Ryan's voice. He hadn't wanted to bring it up, but both he and Teresa had been out of their minds with worry. "So is Halloran in one piece?"

Kate said, "In two pieces, but one of them's on his way to the hospital now."

"Huh?"

"Lost his leg."

"Yikes. Is there any way we can get a warrant to search his place? And his car?"

"Ugh," Kate gagged. "I'm playing the pregnancy card. Someone else can go through the trash."

In fact, a tow truck had just pulled up when Ryan called, and Sergeant Byrne took a moment to speak with him, then returned to the conversation: "We'll get the car towed down to the Rathfarnham Garda station, go over it."

"Did anyone check through Halloran's pockets?" Kate asked.

Rourke nodded. "First thing we did once we knew you were all right. He didn't have much on him, but..."

He pulled out a plastic evidence bag and donned some nitrile gloves. He laid the items out carefully on the SUV floor, and Castle trained his flashlight on them.

"All right then," Rourke said. He grunted and hunkered down. "Wallet. Containing... huh. Four hundred eighty Euros. Straight from the ATM. And a bit of change."

Castle asked Rourke, "Would that be considered dispensible cash for a disenfranchised cop?"

"Not unless he won it at the races," Rourke shrugged.

"National I.D. Card. Here, Byrne, you want to snap that address and see if it's still current? He's in Tallaght. You'll want to bring a CSU and a hazmat team. If his house is anything like his car..." he shuddered. "God knows what you'll find." He added, "Some frequent shopper cards... a few old business cards... a photo." The photo was a family snapshot, with the harsh, faded colors of 1990s processing: Halloran as a younger man, still with a fringe of hair; a tall brunette, presumably Halloran's wife; and their son, maybe 9 years old, a little pudgy, in a hideous butterscotch-colored school jacket.

Byrne took pictures of everything on her ipad and sent it to her home office. Rourke poked through a few other items: a receipt from a Chinese restaurant. A piece of paper with the word "RALEIGH" scrawled on it. Cigarettes and a lighter. There were a few other odds and ends, but...

Rourke sighed. It was going to be a long night.

JaysusMaryJosephAndAllTheSaints, will this chapter ever end?

Yes. Right... now.


	43. Chapter 43

**TooSoon Chapter 43**

**I Know Where I'm Going**

**9:20 p.m. Krimby Psychiatric, Charybdis Island, New York**

Little Rosie O'Shaunessy was sound asleep, curled up in her blanket. She heard her mother's soft voice singing :

"I know where I'm goin'  
And I know who's goin' with me

I know who I love

But God knows who I'll marry

Now I'll have stockings of silk

And shoes of fine green leather

Combs to buckle my hair

And a ring for every finger

Some say he's bad

And others say he's bonny

I know my love

My handsome, winsome Johnny...

Her mother was patting her arm. "Wake up. Wake up, Rose. Wake up."

She opened her eyes and blinked, trying to focus in the soft light. "What... who... Mam?"  
But it wasn't her mother. Rather a middle-aged Indian woman with a red bindi over her pineal gland. She shrank back. "What do you want?"

Dr. Patel said, "Someone is here to see you." She stepped back, and Rose saw Minsky standing behind her.

Rose was puzzled. "I always see him."

"No, Dr. O'Shaunessy. Someone else. Please stand up and come with us."

Minksy cuffed Rose and led her down the hall to the interview room.

"Is it Castle?"

"No, I am sorry, Mr. Castle is no longer permitted here."

It definitely came off as a whine: "Why not?" She'd forgotten. Or at least, she wasn't sure what she remembered. Had he kissed her? He had. Had he killed her? No. She was, as far as she could tell, still there. She pinched herself to be sure, but barely felt the pain. The drugs were nice; she felt warm and slightly sleepy, but fairly alert. She hadn't been able to put a sentence together since they sedated her when Castle went away. That felt sort of abstract now. She wondered whether she'd feel anything about it when the drugs wore off. Just the wondering let her know she was gonna need another dose soon.

Dr. Patel opened the interview room to reveal Jordan Shaw, who was dressed rather casually in a periwinkle-blue sweater set and jeans. Shaw was sitting at a laptop. She didn't get up, just focused on her screen, typing.

Rose balked. "Not her." That pert little red-haired woman... no. She knew too much. She asked the wrong questions, questions that hurt, questions that made her question herself... "No."

Minsky said, "Sorry, Dr. Nieman," and secured Rose to the shackles.

Rose went away. Kelly said, "I want... I want my smokes."

Shaw shook her head absently. "Not gonna happen."

"Why are you here?"

"We have some questions. And I'm expecting a visitor."

Rose surfaced and perked up, her hand moving up unconsciously, as if to fix her hair. "Is it Castle?"

"Nope." Shaw kept typing. "In fact, we're looking for him. Wonder if you have any idea..."

Rose went away. Kelly came back. "No! No idea," she replied. She sat up straight, crossed her legs at the ankles, and smiled, lady-like, her voice like spun-steel velvet. "Now, if that will be all..."

There was a soft knock at the door. An older woman stepped in, her outfit uncharacteristically subdued in black and charcoal gray, which somehow only accented her porcelain skin and flaming red hair.

It took a moment, and then Kelly Nieman gasped. "Martha?"

Martha stepped to the table and sat in the chair at right angles to Kelly. To Kelly's genuine shock, the older woman reached out and took her hand, squeezed it tenderly, and looked at her with grave blue eyes.

"Colleen, my dear. It is you! Are you all right?"

"Colleen?" she breathed. Even with the drugs, her hand was shaking under Martha's cool, light grasp.

Martha spoke without malice, only concern. "If that's your real name, Darling. You remember? Your husband Oliver introduced us at the Claremont last summer."

Rosie nodded. "You came to visit me?" Her voice was almost childlike.

Martha glanced over at Jordan Shaw, who was still typing away (she was actually working on a cookbook - _Healthy Recipes for Moms On the Run_, but nobody needed to know that).

Martha said, "Agent Shaw, there's more red dye in this room than a bag of M&amp;Ms. Any chance you could go get a cup of coffee?"

Shaw closed her laptop and chirped, "Sure. Just yell for Mr. Minsky if she gets weird on ya."

Martha twinkled kindly at Rosie. "Oh, I think we'll be all right."

Shaw slid a manila file folder over to Martha, then left the room, and Rosie whispered, "Why are you here?"

Martha's composure shook a little. "I need your help. I need to understand why I have one son dead, and another missing."

"Missing?"

Martha nodded, blinking back tears. "Richard. He's barely spoken to me since... since the crash. After the DNA testing came back on Oliver's body..."

"Michael. His name was _Michael." _

"_Michael._ It's all so confusing. So many names, and discovering he was my other son, that he was the murderer who tried to frame Richard... Oh, Colleen, he was a terrible man. I can't imagine what he did to you, you poor dear."

"What _Michael_ did?" Martha saw a sly, cold flicker in the younger woman's eyes. "He's dead now."

"Yes. You're safe."

"Here?" she snorted. "This is worse than hell. They drug me. They cuff me. I can barely remember my name from one minute to the next."

Martha chuckled. "Sounds like Soho in 1967."

Kelly sighed. "Hey, you wouldn't have any smokes, would you?"

Martha rummaged in her purse. "Richard throws a fit if I smoke in the loft, but every once in awhile, it's just the thing. You can find out a lot about an acting company by hanging out on the back dock of the theater with a pack of cigarettes." (In truth, she hadn't smoked in 41 years, since coming home to find her couch half-charred by the combination of the nanny's cigarette and the vodka little Richard had poured on the fire, trying to extinguish it). But Shaw had asked her to have cigarettes ready. Martha was just being the good cop.

She pulled out a silver cigarette case and an old-fashioned flip-top lighter in a matching silver case. "These belonged to my grandfather," she smiled, and lit a cigarette for Kelly, who took a long, deep drag and sighed, then coughed. It wasn't her usual brand, but she was too desperate to care.

Martha watched her for a minute or so, then looked down at her own hands, the skin paper-white with only a very few freckles. She was showing the beginnings of arthritis, wearing only one ring, which clearly had an adjusted band.

Dr. Nieman said, "You've taken excellent care of your skin over the years."

Martha nodded. "And no botox."

"You're about the only person I've ever met that I didn't want to fix."

Martha's smile was sad, uncertain. She shrugged a little. "My instrument doesn't need fine tuning?"

"Ah, hell, no, Missus. Michael and I went to watch your shows a few times... He really wanted..." she hesitated. "After he escaped from the motel, he became even more obsessed. Did you know he hid cameras in yer loft?"

Martha looked shocked and horrified, although it wasn't actually news to her at this point. "Good lord. _Why_?"

"He'd been watching you, all of you, from a distance. Rick was such a... twit. And you... you have your public face. But sometimes there were glimpses of something else. The distance wasn't enough anymore after Rick told him off in the motel."

"Told him off. You mean the cold reading?"

"Yeh, that's what _you_ call it."

"It's an old vaudeville trick, but profilers do something similar. Richard's got some skill at it."

"Michael... he'd sit there watching you, your family, and he was happy. He'd just sit there laughin' his head off, 'Oh, you won't believe what Martha did...' She shrugged a little, tears in her eyes. "It was almost like having a real family after we got used to you all."

Martha was tempted to point out the difference between fantasy and reality, but this didn't seem like a good time to do it.

Kelly went on: "You have to understand, it was just us. My folks were... were gone, and his Mam as well. He never had a father, just... just really bad men in his life, men who make Micheal look like, well, like Mister Rogers by comparison." She took another drag. "He could be a good man. He loved you. He even loved Alexis. And he loved Rick almost as much as he hated him."

Martha watched her carefully, saying nothing. The invasion of their privacy sickened her, but Kelly Nieman's look of hollow longing drew her in.

"I got sucked in, too. We called it the Rick and Kate Show. But sometimes it was the Martha Show, and... GOD. He wanted to hate you. We wanted to hate you, wanted to hate all of yez. But..." she stopped, in tears. "There was no place for us there... No. It was always Richard this, Richard that, Mr. Keys-to-the-City,you giving him all yer oh-so-pithy advice. And Rickyboy himself, _wasting_ all his energy with his do-gooding here, do-gooding there. Flailin' around over that bitchy little cop. It was damn irritatin'."

"I'll say," Martha rolled her eyes.

"But you can't blame Michael for mixed feelin's. You _left_ him. You dumped him like _garbage_. Even my Da didn't do that to me." Kelly's cigarette had been sucked to a nub. She tamped the butt in the ashtray.

Martha looked like she'd been slapped. She spoke over a sob. "I didn't even know Michael had lived past birth."

"How could you _not_?"

Martha briefly explained the mixup with the midwife, and the debacle at the boys' preschool.

"So you really didn't know you had another son rattling around out there, having the shite pumped out of him by his mother's johns? And worse?"

"No," Martha breathed, and now real tears were pouring down her cheeks. Rick had told her in the abstract, but he had not been explicit, barely even able to broach the idea, and she had employed her usual tricks of denial to get herself through.

"Well, now, that doesn't get you off the hook, does it?" Kelly spat. "Because it's your "good" son killed him off, last man standing wins the game. And he's killed those two little blondes, or have those eejits at the FBI figgered that out yet?"

Martha gasped. "No. That's not true!"

"HA! He showed me the cutest little home movies he made. Your surviving son's quite the perv. And now Rickyboy's gone missing. Where d'ye suppose he's gone? What d'ye suppose he's up to?"

"Oh, God."

Kelly snickered. "You rich, spoiled bitch. D'ye suppose his girlfriend and his Mayor will save him from the needle or the gas chamber? You think he's smart enough to keep from getting' caught? Sure, he's been studyin' for years. He can probably evade the cops a while, he knows their methods. But you have to wonder if he'll really pull it off. Maybe he'll call you in a few weeks, beggin' you for a suitcase of cash and a fake passport. On the other hand, maybe you'll never hear from him again, and you'll die alone, like you deserve to."

"I need to stop him before he hurts anyone else," Martha quavered.

"Oh, do ya, now? And how d'you purport to be doin' that? You a cop now? Or is his girlfriend on the trail?"

Martha shook her head. "They split up about a week ago. He, uh..."

Kelly leaned forward eagerly. "He what. Did he hit her?" Martha looked at her stonily. Kelly leered. "Bitch had it comin', all the hell she put him through. He shoulda shown her who was wearin' the pants a long time ago. She woulda liked it if the timin' was right."

Martha frowned and hid her forehead in her hands. On the other side of the wall, Jordan Shaw and Dr. Patel exchanged an anxious glance. Martha had agreed to call for Mr. Minsky if things became too much.

Martha said, "Colleen..."

"It's Kelly. Kelly Nieman. Or I suppose you could call me Kelly McGowran, if you ever troubled to learn your own son's last name."

"So you were married."

"Yeh. No kids, though. We thought about it, 'specially after Alexis..." her voice trailed off. "No babies for me, anyway. Da saw to that." She seemed to have calmed down.

"For what it's worth, Kelly. I'm sorry."

"Heh. For what? Givin' birth to a matched set of monsters?"

"No." Martha paused. "I love Richard. No matter what he does, or to whom he does it, I am his mother, and I love him. If I had known... Look, I admit that I didn't take Michael's claim seriously when they were little boys. I mean, how could I really have known for certain at that time? He was four. And he was already mentally ill. Anyone could see it." She paused. "He grew up hiding that darkness, the way Richard hid his own depression and insecurity behind a wall of sheer charm. I love Richard anyway. Knowing what I know about Michael... I would have loved him. Anyway. Because _he_ was my son, too. But I never had the chance, because he didn't give it to me."

Kelly's pale-green eyes flicked to her briefly then closed.

Martha went on. "What I'm sorry for... is the glimpse I saw of Michael as a man named Oliver McCree, when he would come to my stage door bearing flowers or cards. What I'm sorry for is the glimpse I saw of Colleen and Oliver McCree. The two of you together, when we all went for dinner at the Claremont." Martha put her hand out gingerly and laid it again over Kelly's, whose face was a white mask of tension under her shock of fading orange-and-gray hair.

Martha added, "That sweet young couple I met. So much in love. So kind to me, their eyes meeting in the candlelight, their faces glowing. I _liked_ those people, and not just because they fed my ego and flattered me. They were funny. They were so very bright, bantering like Nick and Nora Charles. I could have come to love you both, my dear." She pulled her gentle hands away, and somewhere inside herself, Rosie cried out in loss.

Martha rasped, "Now I find that all the hopes and plans you secretly shared were for my utter annihilation."

Kelly barely nodded. "Bingo."

Martha went on. "I know Michael was a monster. I imagine you're something of a monster yourself. And Richard..." her voice shook. "He's been in a kind of shock, ever since the crash, and now I understand why it's deepened instead of subsiding, because you are a piece of work, Lady. But I pray it's not too late to save him, to save that poor innocent girl."

"There's no such thing as innocence," Kelly whispered.

"_Bullshit." _Martha's voice wasn't angry, but it was firm. "You've watched Alexis grow up in that living room. Maybe even in her bedroom. She may have her little adventures and her passions and rebellions, she's certainly awoken to her own womanhood. All that is healthy, and it's normal. She is _innocent_ of all this. And you _love_ her. I see it in your face, and I've been acting since before you were born, so don't you bother trying to hide it from me." She paused, her hands now on Kelly's again.

"Please. You know what it's like to have no one. I'm _old_. I'm not going to live forever, and if Alexis loses Richard..." She paused, a lump in her throat. At this point she wasn't acting. "Go ahead and hate me. Go ahead, hate Richard, if that's what you need to make Michael's death worthwhile. But don't poison Alexis' life any worse than it already has been. Help us find him. You know where Tiffany is, and he must be looking for her to complete Michael's task. He's always three steps ahead of anyone else. He may have figured it out." _And Tiffany might already be dead._

Kelly looked down at her hands, the red marks from the metal cuffs bright on her pale skin. She took a deep breath. "Michael and I had a bit of a tiff after we took her," she said.

"Why is that?"

"I didn't want to make it too hard. We had contingencies, ye know? In case Michael died, in case I died, in case we got caught. Always the planning. He loved that." Her little smile trembled. "All the little in-jokes. It was hard, ye know."

"How so?"

"Rick and himself, they sort of _got_ one another. You know, you can go yer whole life and never find someone who _gets_ ya without even tryin'."

"They're so alike in some ways," Martha observed. "Help me know him better."

There was a long pause. Martha just waited, her bright blue eyes searching Kelly Nieman's ruined, puffy face, watching a quiet war being waged.

"Here's the t'ing," Kelly said. "About that fight. I know he planned to take her to Dublin."

"Ireland, not California, right?"

"There's a Dublin in California?" She seemed genuinely surprised.

"Never mind."

"Anyway, we'd just made up, and he was just about to tell me _where_ in Dublin, and then we caught up with Castle's car, and, yeh know, shite hit the fan."

Martha sighed. "Anything. A name, a possible place, a time he was supposed to meet someone... maybe a vehicle, or which airport he flew into. Anything?"

Kelly Nieman was thinking hard, and she'd started rocking slightly back and forth, back and forth. Finally she said, in a very small, childlike voice, "Raleigh."

"Raleigh. Like Sir Walter Raleigh?"

"Yeh." She was still rocking back and forth, staring at the table.

"What about him?"

Rosie was singing to herself. She was afraid anyone would hear, maybe Michael would know and he'd be mad. So she kept it very soft. Martha had to lean in close.

"She died of a fever which none could relieve her,  
and that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.  
Now her ghost wheels her barrow  
through streets broad and narrow,  
crying _'Cockles and Mussels alive, alive oh...'_"

Rosie closed her eyes. She could hear her mother's voice, singing the chorus along with her inside her head, ending slow and sad, crying out for something forever lost.

"Alive, alive oh, alive, alive oh,

crying _'cockllllles... and muuussselllls... _

_alllive, allivvvve ohhhhhhh'_"

She felt her mother's slender, frail arm around her shoulder, and a kiss on her temple. It seemed so real. Her tears came, and she leaned a moment, pressing her eyes closed agains the tears, wishing.

"There's a darling. Thank you."

She didn't hear Martha's soft knock at the door. "Mr. Minsky, I'm ready now."

•

Minsky accompanied her down the hall, through the checkpoint, and bade her take a seat in the waiting room. She poured herself a drink of water, blew her nose, checked her makeup and applied a dab of lipstick.

Jordan Shaw appeared a moment later, accompanied by Dr. Patel. They sat down, and Shaw balanced her laptop across her knees.

Patel looked carefully at Martha, who sat with her arms across her waist, almost hugging herself. Martha said, "That was a thick toasted slice of hell."

"I am amazed. You handled yourself so well."

Martha shrugged modestly. "I'm not a cop, I just played one on TV."

Shaw, who had spent the last few minutes of the interview researching everything she could find about Oliver and Dr. Colleen McCree, took a long look at Martha. "Did you really."

"Oh, yes. Back in 1973, I played lead in a three-part segment of that "Cop Story" series. It was an anthology..."

Shaw's eyes went wide. "They based that show 'Lady Cop 4-1-5' on your performance, right?" Her voice had gone up about an octave. "So _you're_ Martie Atherton?"

"Yes, that was my married name, I made the mistake of..."

"I can't believe I didn't recognize you sooner!"

"Why, I can't believe you'd even remem..."

"Omigod!" The normally unflappable Jordan Shaw was squealing like a 12-year-old at a Taylor Swift concert. "I went into law enforcement because of you!"

"You did?" Martha looked like someone had just handed her an Oscar.

"YES! That scene where you take off the blonde wig and blinded the rapist by shoving it into his eye sockets..." Shaw turned to Patel. "I knew right then, I didn't wanna go into nursing." She sighed. "Ya know, sometimes I'm just too focused on my job. I can't believe I didn't make the connection."

"Well, as I said, I was acting under my married name at the time. And I dyed my hair brown so people would take me seriously." Martha chuckled. "It mostly just made me look seriously dreary."

"Oh, no, you were just gorgeous." Shaw sighed again, happily. "Not that you aren't still." She fanned her face. Yes. Literally flapping. Flailing. She tried to calm herself down. "How come you didn't take the role for the series?"

Martha shrugged. "Oh, I wanted to work more in legitimate theater." She'd also pulled a hamstring running down California Street in 3-inch heels during a chase sequence, and decided that maybe she didn't want to pursue a TV crime-solving career.

Shaw blew out a last excited breath, fanning herself. She said, "Okay. Now, what did we learn tonight? Not a whole hell of a lot, but I think we can confirm that Castle made the right choice going to Dublin."

Martha nodded. "Katherine texted me and told me the Irish police were cooperating."

Shaw said, "Yeah, Senator Wong's as good as his word, eh?" She grinned. "Now. Raleigh. The cigarettes, maybe?"

Martha shook her head, uncertain. "Maybe a building, a street, an apartment complex..."

Shaw said, "What time is it in Ireland?"

"Well, they're five hours ahead of us, so..."

**11:28 p.m., Crash Scene, Dublin County Line, Ireland -**  
Detective Byrne drove off, accompanying the flatbed tow truck carrying Halloran's car. This left Rourke and Gashkouri's SUV, Hunt's SUV, and Matt's copter at the crime scene.

There was arguing. Arguing about whether Kate should go on to Dublin or return to the hotel, who should give her a ride, whether she could drive Hunt's SUV alone while he rode in the chopper, whether Rourke should accompany her or go on to meet up with Byrne and look over the car, whether Gashkouri should go to Tallacht and join the team searching Halloran's home... It was rather a mess.

Rick found all eyes on him, and he sighed, trying to see the story in his mind, to figure out what they really needed to know, what really needed to happen for... what? A happy ending? With so many people hurt and dead?

He bit his lip, not in a sexy way. Kate squeezed his hand.

"Okay," he said. "Hunt, if you can take Kate back to the hotel and work with Teresa and Ryan to go over those real estate files..." He fixed a stern look on Kate, the sternest she'd seen since he tried to talk her out of going after Bracken. "You need to sleep. _I_ need you to sleep."

She nodded meekly. Truth was, she was nearly dead on her feet – even though she'd slept a bit on the private jet, in Teresa's car, and at the hotel, too. "We'll catch up with you tomorrow."

Castle's face burst into a sunny smile. "Good." He squeezed her hand and was back to business. "Rourke, I have no jurisdiction over you and Gashkouri."

"No, but you know this case better than we do."

"I'd like to borrow Gashkouri, if you don't mind, since she knows Dublin. If you could hit Halloran's place and, I dunno, work some kind of miracle?"

Rourke shrugged. "If there's one to be had. I'll find out everything I can about him, but he might be a lone wanker with something to prove. I'll stay in touch with the hospital – have his next of kin brought round and interviewed, have someone to talk with him in case he wakes up."

Hunt said, "If I know anything about traumatic injuries, he'll already be in surgery, and he won't be any good to us tomorrow, either."

Esposito didn't need to remind any of them, but he did anyway. "Tomorrow, in about a half-hour's time, would be 'today.' Fourth of July." Tiffany's literal deadline.

Castle nodded. "So we're on our own unless he kept a detailed diary or left some other obvious trail." He glanced over at the chopper, currently just a faint outline in the mist. "We'll be based at the Hallton Dublin Airport Hotel. Everyone has everyone else on speed dial?"

Nods all around. Castle continued. "So we'll meet at the Hallton tomorrow morning, and assuming that Tiffany's in Dublin, and still alive, we'll take the chopper back to Shannon and..." He shrugged. "I have no idea how Teresa managed to snag a high-speed jet ride here."

Hunt winked. "I do. I don't know if it was a round trip deal, though."

Matt cleared his throat. "Well, we've always got the horse we rode in on." That being the Cessna he'd piloted over, by way of Iceland.

Rick clapped him on the shoulder and smiled genuine gratitude. "Thanks, Matt." He took a deep breath. "Okay, folks, let's go."

Just then a battered old blue Peugot sedan rumbled down the Lafferty's drive, through the gate, and parked at the shrine lot. Mrs. Lafferty was driving (she wouldn't let her man drive after dark anymore). The couple stepped out. Rick hurried the road to meet with them, accompanying them back to Hunt's SUV.

Farmer Lafferty was his usual rather blustery but genial self, shaking hands all around. He was holding a large grocery bag under one sturdy arm. Mrs. Lafferty was quite subdued in contrast to her previous behavior that evening, and she carried a little canvas tote with Mary Englebreit's "Queen of Everything!" printed on it.

Rick said, "I'm so happy to introduce you both to my wife, Kate."

Mrs. Lafferty's eyes were round as saucers. She stared up at Kate and said, "You're Nikki Heat. I mean, the remarkable K.B.?"

Kate nodded, uncomfortable. "Kate. Please call me Kate."

"Yeh." Mrs. Lafferty said dreamily. "Oh, I, ehm." She rummaged in her little bag and pulled out a well-read copy of _Heat Wave_. "Me ladies' book club... It would mean the world to us all."

She handed Kate a pen, and Kate took it, looking around in embarrassment. "Me?"

Castle said, "I couldn't have written it without you."

Esposito smirked. "Go on, girl, you know you want to."

Mrs. Lafferty's jaw dropped. "Are you Ochoa?"

He gave her a modest shrug-and-bow. "Javier Esposito."

The woman went quite fluttery, and when Kate had finished writing

"_Thanks for the tea!  
Sincerely, KB"_

Esposito took the pen and wrote,

"_XXOO and Good Luck 2 the Ladies' Book Club!  
Javier Esposito"_

Castle had been watching all this, a bit embarrassed at the colossal fib he'd told her husband (twice). Mary Lafferty turned to him with a nervous grin. She looked very close to crying, or possibly jumping up and down, or maybe going in for a tackle hug. Perhaps a combination of the three.

He beat her to it, pulling her in for a big hug, and said, "May I sign it too?"

She nodded. "Please."

Castle took his time, holding up his casted right hand apologetically, then writing carefully with his left hand.

"_Neal and Mary - _

_Thank you so much for your help. _

_You may have saved Kate's life._

_I am so grateful for everything. _

_Also, the bread &amp; tea were delicious._

_Please contact Black Pawn.  
When the next book comes out –_

_I'll make sure your entire book club gets signed copies. _

_Sincerely,_

_Richard Castle_

_p.s. Sorry about the bull." _

Mary read the inscription, then she hugged Rick, then she laughed, then she cried just a teeny bit, and he handed her a clean handkerchief.

Kate stared at him. Where exactly did he keep them? Why didn't she know?

Rourke found the Lafferty's thermos and handed it off, and Mr. Lafferty handed him the big bag, which was full of ham-and-cheese sandwiches, apples, scones, and a six-pack of lite beer. Mary said, "Sure it's hours since any of you have eaten, and I can't send you off with empty stomachs. Where are you goin'?"

Castle hesitated, then waggled his eyebrows with a grin. "Secret mission. I'd tell you but..."

Mary tittered. "You'd have to kill me!" and punched his arm lightly. "Did you hear _that_, Neal?"

"What?"

She turned back to Rick. "Well, get on with you, then. And alla yez drive safe!"

Her husband added, "Watch for those feckin' rocks on the way back round the gully, lads, they'll bust your undercarriage wide open."

They waved goodbye and made their exit, and then it was time for Castle's team to split up again.

Rourke and Gashkouri exchanged some brief words and she reminded him to get the back bumper fixed before he got himself rear-ended. He took a look at the back of the SUV, shook his head, and grumbled,"Again?" Then he grinned and said, "Wish I'd seen that one." He got in and drove off, heading toward Dublin, where he'd hook up more easily with the main road to Tallacht.

Rick and Kate stood apart a moment, their arms around one another. Beckett said "I guess this is the part where I change into my underwear and go down to the basement to check out that strange noise."

Rick said, "I have a flashlight, a can of spray cooking oil, and a lighter, and I'm not afraid to use them."

She rolled her eyes just to make things feel normal for a moment, then blew out a short breath, a suppressed sob that he felt as a puff of air against his throat. "Please be careful."

He nodded. "I won't do anything you wouldn't do."

She made a face. "We're so screwed."

That was SO much better than _"everything's gonna be okay."_

They shared one last brief hug-and-kiss, the kind where you pull away too soon so you won't cling on forever. "Tomorrow, then."

She whispered, "Tomorrow," and walked back to Hunt's SUV.

Rick's dad just gave him a piercing look and a little salute. "Stay in touch."  
•

Rick nodded, and turned to follow his friends to the chopper. Soon its blades churned ghostly, swirling vortices in the timeless mist. Betsy howled miserably in Mo's lap (she was fine with cars and planes, but she didn't have her crate, and helicopters made her queasy). Rick stared out the window as the chopper rose above the low hills and thumped its way through the sky, skirting the main city of Dublin and coming around to the cluster of hotels near the airport on the north side.

Matt landed the chopper gently on the rooftop pad of the Hallton. The concierge – a paper-skinned, balding man named Mr. O'Leary - and bellhop with a cart came to meet them from the roof elevator, and they were checked into a suite within a half hour after leaving the meadow.

Castle paused and talked to the the concierge, O'Leary, who seemed prim at best, utterly humorless at worst. "I have a mission in the morning with my team, and I'll need a few things – clothes, and some weapons, bullet-proof vests including one for the bloodhound. Oh, and I need a dozen roses sent, but that can wait until morning... you can put it all on my room tab."

Mr. O'Leary said firmly, "Mr. Castle, This is Ireland, not Manhattan. Ireland's half asleep even when she's half awake."

Castle handed O'Leary a little folded bundle of $100 bills. "There's more with your name on it when I get what I need. Look, this stuff doesn't have to be new, or even, uh, freshly laundered. It just has to _work, _and it has to be here by 5 a.m. A man like you can be the most moral and upstanding person in the world, but still know people who know people." He paused, slightly uncertain. "You do know... _people_?"

O'Leary's mouth twitched. "I myself do not know _people_. Directly. But perhaps I might know someone who does."

Castle handed him another $100. "That's a good start."

O'Leary said, "You'll need cash."

"Can the manager get me an advance?"

O'Leary nodded. "But the amount you're looking at here... let's say you could purchase a castle of your own. Fully staffed. With resident ghost."

Castle shrugged. "Worth it."

•

The gully was thick with fog, and Hunt took it carefully. He set up the radar, which beeped insistently and highlighted a couple of large rocks in the road, as well as an errant cow (she had probably found the hole in Lafferty's wall). Kate ate an apple then reclined her seat back a little and fell asleep, her hand unconsciously over Small, who was also wiped out after all the bouncy excitement.

At the stone bridge over Poulaphuca Creek, the radar caught something which, on its screen, appeared to be a 6' tall invisible rabbit in a top hat. But that can't be right, and Hunt knew he had jet lag, so after that, he was even more careful. He woke Kate, who had been dreaming about a large rabbit riding a bicycle, and was a bit disoriented for a moment, looking out the window into the mist.

He said, "You're not much for small talk, are you?"

"Not really." They'd almost never been alone together for more than a minute or two, never really talked about anything but the present moment, whatever that might be at the time.

"Me neither." He glanced at her awkwardly. "So, um, how are you feeling?" They rounded a curve, and the white mist jumped and swirled in the air currents. It could make a person believe in ghosts, or fairies.

She said, "I'm a little carsick." She brought her seat upright and rolled her window down. "You know, I never let Castle drive at the precinct. I didn't even know he was a decent driver until we started dating."

Hunt chuckled. "Dating."

"Yes, dating."

"When he was in Paris, he told me he knew he wanted to marry you when your apartment blew up. And you took _how_ long to start dating?"

Beckett rolled her eyes. "Yeah, general consensus is I'm an idiot."

"Nah, you're a smart cookie." He downshifted for the last of the really bad hairpin turns, taking it smoothly. "So, tell me about your favorite case."

"You want _me_ to tell you a story." She smiled.

"Just enjoy the irony."

"Okay." She thought a minute. "We had two murders, and somehow we split off and made a bet on who would solve their case first..."

Kate's words and their laughter kept him alert as the SUV wound through seemingly endless white mist – at least until it actually did end. They were back at the Hunstman's Arms hotel within an hour, greeted by the extremely relieved Teresa and Ryan, as well as a local uniform garda who wanted to get Kate's statement about her kidnapping, since she had been taken over the county line from Wicklow to Dublin.

Ryan had wasted no time researching Halloran, and Teresa had been scouring 3XK's real estate holdings, narrowing down hotbeds of criminal behavior and logical centers of violent or just creepy activity. Ryan had great respect for the older woman, whose crisp sense of humor and logical mind seemed to cut through distractions. He could see glimpses of her in Kate, and vice versa. He wasn't exactly sure what her position had been... law enforcement? Espionage? Government fact-checking? But whatever it was... he was certain she'd gotten the job done flawlessly.

Ryan only hoped that, all of them working together, they would be able to pull this off. But really, it all hinged on Castle. He was the only one who knew where they were going... and even he had only the faintest clue of how to get there. 


	44. Chapter 44

•

**3:20 a.m. Dublin Airport Hallton Hotel**

Castle was dozing in a chair, fully dressed, waiting for the Hallton concierge to show up with loot from his staff's middle-of-the-night scavenger hunt. Betsy had stealth-moded her way into Rick's lap, and was curled up with her cheek drooling on his shoulder, one ear draped over him like a little velvet blanket, one hind leg and most of her tail flopping over his cast and onto the side table. She was so tuckered out from the exciting day and helicopter ride, that she only snuffled when Castle's phone buzzed. When he reached for it, she stuffed her nose into his left armpit with a groan and shoved one paw under his chin, another into his crotch. "Castle... Hey, hey, knock it off, girl," he mumbled. His eyes didn't really want to open. The phone buzzed again. He looked at it and realized it was a video conference call. He tapped to accept it and tried to sit up straight under the weight of 43 pounds of furry love. "Sorry, sweetie, you're gonna have to get off. No. Stop licking me."

He sort of poured Betsy onto the floor. She put a paw up on his knee, gazed up at him with pleading eyes, and farted loudly. Mo had let her eat half a ham-and-cheese sammie as a midnight snack.

"Richard?"

"Mother! I didn't know you knew how to use... Oh. Agent Shaw. Hello."

"Do you have a guest with you?" Dr. Patel's voice reflected only the most professional concern. "You can call us back."

"No, they're all aslee – oh, you mean Betsy?"

Agent Shaw said hastily, "We'll call back." She and Martha exchanged horrified looks.

Martha said, "Richard, have you no shame? Poor Katherine's been running herself ragged for you, and.."

Rick turned the phone to the dog, who stretched and yawned. She was too sleepy even to wag her tail. "Betsy, meet my psychiatrist, my favorite FBI agent, and my mother." Rick got up and walked her over to Mohammed Atta's bedroom door. "Go see Mo," he said. He opened it, she stumbled in, and he heard Mo grunt as her weight hit the mattress. Castle closed the door. "Sorry," he whispered to the door.

He yawned and rubbed a hand over his face. "Wait, Mother, what are you doing there?"

Shaw stepped in. "We decided to try having Martha talk to Kelly Nieman."

"Oh, no. God. Don't let Kelly near her..."

"It's all right, Richard, it's done," Martha said. She was using her Mom Voice.

"What?" he said faintly. He needed to sit down again. "Mother, I don't know what she told you..."

"Actually she didn't tell me much I didn't already know, but it hurt like hell anyway," Martha said. "I'm so sorry. I should never have put you through this, Kiddo."

"You? You didn't do anything."

"I should have gone to the hospital when I went into labor. I should have pressed the nurse practitioner harder about Michael's fate. I should have paid attention to my instincts when he went haywire at the preschool." Her voice was rough. "I've caused way too much suffering because of what I _didn't_ do." 

"Mother..."

Dr. Patel's hand was on hers. "Ms Rodgers..."

"Call me Martha," she said heavily.

"Martha, we cannot berate ourselves for the past. We can only do our best with the present. And our present now is finding Tiffany Ross, if we can."

Shaw said, "Yeah, about that, does the name 'Raleigh' ring a bell?"

"Of course it rings a bell. Sir Walter.. movie studio, bikes, cigarettes..." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I saw it somewhere recently... wait, it was tonight. On a piece of paper."

"Where?"

"This man kidnap- wait. Kate's fine, okay? We got her back, Jackson's looking after her. But this ex-cop named Halloran kidnapped her. But there's no questioning him for now."

Shaw frowned. "Why not?"

"He, uh, he got hurt in an accident."

Dr. Patel's voice was skeptical. "An accident?"

"No, really! He was driving. Hit a wall or something, he's alive but down for the count. He had a piece of paper in his pocket, just the word Raleigh, hand-written."

Shaw said, "Huh. Well, I've done a search for everything related to Raleigh. There are no families named Raleigh in Dublin, and only a few people in the entire country with the surname. I'll send those to Ryan for cross-checking."

Castle said, "Maybe an incoming flight from Raleigh, North Carolina?"

"Nothing direct."

Castle sighed. "Did she say anything else weird? I mean..."

Dr. Patel volunteered. "Weirder than usual?"

Jordan nodded. "Yeah. She was singing."

There was a soft knock at the door. "Concierge, Mr. Castle."  
He opened the door; the concierge and bellboy brought in a garment rack and a couple of plastic crates with miscellaneous odd items. While speaking with Dr. Patel and his mother, Castle looked over their checklist, nodded approval, tipped them each $600 and waved them out.

Patel continued. "She sang a little song. She does that sometimes... they seem to be old folk songs. I don't know it. Did I hear you singing it with her, Martha?"

"_Molly Malone."_ Martha paused. "Wait, didn't you throw up on that statue?"

Rick was up and moving around the suite, dressing. "More or less. Hey, Jordan?"

"Yeah." 

"Get ahold of Ryan, have him look up the Raleigh Reynolds 531 bike and see if any of 3XK's holdings have anything to do with it. Extra points if it's International Orange in color. Try the street view; look for a bike locked up, or someone riding a bike, deliberately posing, anything like that."

"Richard, what's this about?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, Mother, but I need to get off the phone for now." He stopped. "I called Alexis earlier, but she wasn't picking up."

"She's out on a date."

"A _date?"_

"Or maybe she's out with a friend. I'm sure she's fine!"

Castle hesitated. "Of course. Just..."

Martha said gently, "I know, Richard. I know." She chuckled. "Captain Gates' younger brother DelMar is tailing them at a discreet distance."

Castle chuckled. "God, she's worse than me."

"Just until this all blows over, Kiddo."

_Any opportunity. Might be the last._ "Look, Mother, I gotta go. I uh, I love you, okay?"

"I love you too, Richard."

•••

**10 p.m., July 3, 2818 Rackham Road, Dublin 3, Ireland**

Tiffany Ross had been hungry for three days now. They'd stopped feeding her, just gave her clear, slimy goo to drink. When she complained, Murphy came into the room with some sort of tube feeding contraption. She got the drift, obediently drinking as much water as they asked her to. It had stopped making her feel full, although sometimes she felt hungrier than at others.

They'd even taken Fabio the cat away. Maybe as a punishment, maybe because they were afraid she'd try eating the cat food. She couldn't imagine how hungry she'd have to be to kill a cat and eat it raw, so she was glad that possibility was right out of the picture. She heard Murphy cursing when the cat wound himself around his ankles on the stairs, and then a feline squawk when the old man kicked him.

"I hope you break your fuckin' neck," Tiffany whispered. And then she wondered whether they were going to break hers, or maybe use a stun gun, or – who knows, a guillotine? She just hoped it would be fast. She hoped it wouldn't be like those movies where people get eaten alive.

She lay down on the bed, and hugged the pretty pink pillow close, trying to stop shaking. She had been praying nonstop since Murphy dragged her back into the little room, after she saw the bones. An image of the skeletal, jeweled angel flashed into her mind, and she shuddered, and held her pillow tighter still, imagining that she was the pillow, and her mother was holding her.

•••

Greta – aka Ms Krystow – checked out the front window curtain. Murphy was in the kitchen. (Krystow rolled her eyes: "Sharpening the bloody blades. _Again_.")

He was watching the little telly they had on the sideboard. Some fatuous talk-show host interviewing a pop star. "Anything?" he called out. He switched the station. "Bloody BBC with their bloody Doctor-Bloody-Who marathons."

"No sign of Michael," she said. "No sign of either one of 'em."

Murphy sighed. "Well, at least we know Halloran's bringin' the lady. That gives us leverage either way."

"If he ain't caught red-handed."

"Aah, he won't. He's a sly aul' divvil."

She came back into the kitchen, smiling, hugging herself a little, like a self-congratulatory child. "Never sly enough to catch up to us, though."

Murphy snickered. "True."

Fabio the Tuxedo Cat was weaving around Murphy's ankles again, hoping for snacks. Sometimes Murphy sharpened his blades before cutting into the tastiest things.

"Ah, for feck's sake," the old man grumbled. "Can I just snap his neck?"

"Not till you get the girl trussed up. Cat's no good to us dead."

"Eh. True. Is the bike still there?"

She chuckled, puzzled. "Yeh. Well, the frame is. The wheels are long gone."

"Michael said alls we need is the frame."

"Wonder what it's for?"

"Eh. Some kind o' signal, in case the writer figures out his silly little scavenger hunt."

"He'd better, or we're stuck with more bodies than we can process without a stink."

"Yeh, well, if we have extra, we can always have Little Paddy take that off our hands."

"When you expecting him?" 

Murphy was laying out his knives on a white towel, in a neat row, arrayed in a size progression. "Well, ya know, he likes to sleep in a bit, so I figure he'll come over for a late brekkies and we'll do the slaughter around 11 a.m."

"All right, but we need to have the kitchen cleaned up before tea, or I'll be orderin' in a pizza."

Murphy rolled his eyes. "That stuff's rubbish. You don't know what the hell is in the sausage, now do you?"

"And mind you keep those bones nice. No breaks this time!"

Murphy glowered. "Well, if you'd help..."

"You know I don't have a stomach for the actual killing."

"Yeh, that's right, you're the _arteeste_." He snickered.

She looked genuinely hurt. "Don't you make fun."

"It's not like you'll ever make any money off them."

They'd had this discussion too many times. "It's not about the money," she pouted. "It's spiritual. It uplifts me."

"Yeh, speaking of uplift, help me set up the pulley." They went down to the basement. When Michael paid for the remodel, years ago, he'd had a shower put in, and they'd installed a system of heavy-duty hooks in the basement ceiling.

Murphy strained his knees climbing up on the stepladder, reaching above his head to hang the pulley setup on the hooks, while Krystow kept it from wobbling. A bit breathless, Murphy said, "This is still a pain, but it's a lot easier than the old way."

He'd have to bring his victims into the meat packing plant and hang them in a quiet corner over the weekend when nobody was around. Timing was delicate. This setup in the basement made the process of hanging and bleeding-out so much less of a hassle. Now he could get the body cleaned out and rinsed, then easily transfer it (the pulley setup was much like a clothesline) over to the stainless-steel table. Then part it out, wrap the pieces, label them as to type, then slap on whichever cute little label was called for: 

"_The Spoiled Cow: Ireland's finest choice Kobe-style meats" _

(or, if he was in the mood to test fate)  
_"Wild On the Hoof! _

_Natural bush meat and gam, sustainably farmed!"_

Was it Oscar Wilde who described fox hunting as "the unspeakable in pursuit of the indeble"? Well, Murphy did that one better. He sold the meat to crooks, who cooked it up and fed it to spoiled, selfish psychopaths. Nothing Murphy loved more than reading a good review.

•

Mo woke up at 4:30 a.m., starving. Betsy was asleep with her head on his pillow, her jowls rippling in the softest of snores. She didn't even twitch when he god up, showered, and dressed. He went down on his own to the hotel's 24-hour-cafe (it was, after all, attached to a restaurant).

He spent a little time looking the menu over. Eggs Benedict … no, he just really couldn't justify eating any more ham. Irish Fried Breakfast … they were fine but jeez, not every goddamn day.

He smiled to himself, always in the mood for seafood and no Betsy around to moan at the very sound of the word "clams". He ordered The Molly Malone Special: Cockles and Mussels, steamed with a hint of garlic butter and parsley, folded in a 3-Egg Organic Omelette with Irish Cheddar and a Side of Irish Brown Soda Bread.

Yeah. Just the ticket. He hadn't had mussels OR cockles before, so...

Let's just say that when he went into anaphylactic shock, the staff acted with reasonable efficiency. His lips swelled up and he flagged the waitress, clutching his throat. At first she thought he was choking, then the cook looked up from the long grill and said, "Ah, there goes another one..." and dialed 9-9-9, then the staff medic's office (a few of the larger hotels have these... heart attacks are a more common occurrence than one might suspect). The medic came running with an epi-pen and had dosed Mohammed Atta within 60 seconds of his head hitting the Book-Of-Kells patterned industrial carpeting.

22 floors up, Betsy rolled over in her sleep and yipped with frustration. The suite's land line was ringing. Betsy rolled over again. Mo wasn't there. Mo had taken a shower, and he left behind the smell of hungry for breakfast, which usually meant he had gone to get breakfast WITHOUT HER. And he would likely come back with a can of slop and an embarrassed smile, and bacon on his breath, damn him.

The suite's land line was still ringing. Betsy got up and barked at the phone, because everyone was sleeping. Castle's bedroom door crashed open and he staggered out of his room in his briefs, cursing. He picked up the phone, but it had stopped ringing. A knock sounded at the door. "Mr. Castle, we're sorry to disturb you..." Castle said, "Just a minute, getting dressed here." He threw on last night's clothes (they still smelled a little like having sex with Kate under a tree, which is what he'd been dreaming about when rudely interrupted). He tucked his pistol into the back of his belt, just in case, and peeked out. The bellboy looked pretty distraught.

"What..."

When he opened the door, the concierge said, "I am so very sorry, Mr. Castle, but your companion... I'm unsure of his name, but he has had a bad allergic reaction to shellfish and had to be taken to hospital. We found his card key on the table, but no other identification."

"Esposito?" Castle looked around wildly, and hurried to Esposito's room. It was empty, the bed not slept in. He pounded on Mo's door, but only Betsy was there, barking and whining. Last he tried Gashkouri's room, and there she was with Esposito and a couple of bottles from the mini bar, all of them pretty well used up.

Ambreen Gashkouri had a really splendid figure. No, maybe epic. That police uniform concealed true artistic glory from a sad world that could have used a little more beauty. Her black hair had escaped its sedate braid, and tumbled around her shoulders and back in voluptuous waves. She sat up, wearing only a sheet, rubbed her eyes, and said, "Is it morning?"

"Esposito, what the hell?" Rick snapped. Esposito roused with a jerk and sat bolt upright, resembling a prairie dog mesmerized as a hawk's shadow loomed ever lower over its head.

"I, uh. Shit." _Does what happen in Ireland stay in Ireland? _He looked over at Gashkouri, squinted at her in the low light, then back at Castle, who just sighed.

"_Javi!"_ cried Gashkouri. Then she looked down at herself in disdain. "God, I was so stupid."

Esposito said, "No, no, not you, you're great, I just..." he turned to Castle. "What is it?"

"Mo went into shock. Did you know he was allergic to shellfish?"

Esposito shrugged. "He eats lobster any chance he can get it."

Betsy was beside herself. The staff medic had arrived, smelling of _"Mo is Sick!"_ and _"Mo Couldn't Breathe!"_ and _"Betsy is a bad girl she should have been there!"_ The poor dog turned in circles, panting and whining. She was never, ever going to let him go near a clam ever again. What had he been thinking? He'd been thinking _"Mo wants clams."_ Bad, bad Mo. He'd gotten a little itchy from eating clam chowder so many times, even joked about it. "Blame it on the bacon," he'd said. Last time she'd actually barked at his chowder, then upset the bowl and lapped most of it up off the floor before he could get to it. And _she'd_ gotten in trouble for it!

Mo could be _such_ an ass, but she loved him. She sat on her haunches and howled.

Downstairs at the concierge station, the phone switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree. If there's anything that can transcend modern soundproofing, it's a distressed bloodhound.

Castle said, "Well, now that we're all awake..." He couldn't even finish the sentence, just closed the door, turning to the concierge and the medic. Then he tapped on Matt's door.

"Hey, Matt? You up?"

"Yeah. Blood or fire?"

"Nope. Take a minute." He spoke to the concierge and the medic. "Detective Esposito will need to go to the hospital to assist with Detective Atta's... situation. I'll take care of the dog."

The concierge smiled wanly. "Thank you." He was so, so glad that not all Americans insist on traveling with their dogs.

Castle bent and picked up the bloodhound in his arms, cradling her like a very large and floppy baby. "Shhh. Shh. There's a good girl. It's all right."

She quieted then. He was a weird man, but she liked him, and she knew he was trying. Matt came out of his room, took one look at Rick, and said, "Jeez, who do you think you are, Ryan Gosling?"

Castle grinned down at Betsy. "Hey, girl."

"Ffnfff."

•••


	45. Chapter 45

_You don't have to read this, unless you want to know Murphy's backstory. ___If you have a very sensitive soul, or are inordinately fond of puppies, spare yourself.__

_How would a man come to enjoy slaughtering people as a hobby for fun and profit?_

_This chapter was partially inspired by an independent movie called "The Butcher Boy", where Sinéad O'Connor plays a schizophrenic's vision of the Virgin Mary, and has some of the best lines ever. The Virgin Mary does not appear in this chapter, however._

_This chapter is also sad and disgusting, but there are a lot of sad and disgusting stories in the world. _

According to Scientific American magazing, "About 8.5 percent of U.S. non-incarcerated adults have a history of traumatic brain injury, and about 2 percent of the greater population is currently suffering from some sort of disability because of their injury. In prisons, however, approximately 60 percent of adults have had at least one TBI—and even higher prevalence has been reported in some systems."

_Mr. Peter Murphy, the North Docks Ripper (formerly Mr. Harry Gillespie, the Butcher of Cork; aka Joe Yeats; aka little Joseph O'Leary of Arklow, Ireland)  
_

_I can't think of a song that really sets a mood for this chapter, aside from Tom Lehrer's "The Irish Ballad". _  
_Rickety, Tickety, Tin. As opposed to Bibbity, Bobbity, Boo. _

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 45**

**How Sausages are Made**

**Arklow, Ireland, 1941**

Little Joey O'Leary was hiding under his bed. The air raid sirens were shrieking terror into his heart, and he held his dog Lady close. He was four years old, and his town was being bombed by the Luftwaffe. A peculiar whistle grew louder and louder, followed by a FLASH-BOOM. The entire stone house seemed to jump off its foundations then settle back again, slightly wrong. The bedroom window shattered, and he heard his mother scream from underneath the bed across the room. After what seemed like hours, his mother finally crept out, and gasped in pain when she cut her hand on broken glass.

She said, "Stay there, Joey. Just stay there."

She got up, moving carefully, cursing at more cuts on her knees and then her feet, finally found a match and candle on the bedside table. She lit the match with shaking fingers, then the candle, then looked around the room. "Ah, hell," she sighed. "There's glass everywhere. You just stay."

They stayed, and Joey eventually fell asleep, clutching Lady. She was a black-and-white border collie, his constant companion, his pride and his joy. They played together in the street and the woods every day, and on cold nights, she slept on his bed, acting as another blanket. She had looked after him as a baby, when his mother had to go out and work in early mornings; she had kept him company in evenings, when Mrs. O'Leary went down to the pub and sometimes didn't come home until long after it closed.

Mother managed to sweep up enough of the glass and he crawled out from under the bed. "All right, Laddy," she said, cheerfully enough. "I guess we're sleepin' in the kitchen tonight." When she picked him up, he saw in the faint light that there was glass all over his bed. Hers, which was further from the window, had fared better. She carried him into the kitchen and set him at the table, then went back for Lady. The dog shrank back, quivering, and Mrs. O'Leary said, "Ah, suit yourself, then."

She rolled up the glass-spattered top quilt and set it aside, then took the rest of her bed – the blankets, sheets, mattress, and pillows – and hauled them into the kitchen. She laid them down on the floor under the table, and put her little boy in the bed, then bandaged her cuts as well as she could in the near-dark. She tucked into the bed with Joey, and they whispered their evening prayers again, and listened as the Civil Service and volunteers hurried about the neighborhood, putting out residual fires and knocking on doors to make sure everyone was all right. A knock came at their door too, and she got up to answer it. There was Frank Yeats, who worked down at the local meat shop. He was tall, strong, handsome, and Joey heard something different in his voice as the man spoke to his mother. She even giggled a little. "Ah, go off with ye, we're grand."

She closed the door and lay back down, snuggling with her son. They eventually fell asleep. When Joey awoke the next morning, Lady had come to join them, and the little boy awoke his exhausted mother, crowing, "See, Mam! Lady likes our fort!"

She just covered her eyes with one hand that she still had wrapped (badly) in bandages, and sighed. Joey said quietly, "Sorry, Mam."

"Put the kettle on, would you?" She lay back down with a sigh, trying to go back to sleep.

He was four, but he could already make tea and breakfast. Their wartime rations were very tight, and she frequently spend whatever she had to spare on the drink and getting her hair done once a week. The bread was stale, so it was nearly inedible unless it was either toasted or soaked in milk. He opened a tin of milk and dribbled just a little over his bread for breakfast. He lit the gas hotplate and opened the icebox, taking out the packet of bacon they'd been slowly consuming over the past week. When he opened it up, whatever eggs had been in it had hatched, and it was crawling with maggots. He dropped it on the floor with a shriek. Mrs. O'Leary sat up straight, banged her head on the table, and swore. The dog, who was mostly ribs and a tail that still wagged anyway, dove for the bacon and chowed it down before Joey could even think to stop her. The maggots tried to scurry away, but she was fast and hungry, licking them up off the floor like spilled rice.

Mrs. O'Leary snapped, "Jaysus Christ, Joey, can ye make that dog behave?" She got up and shooed Lady outside, entirely forgetting that Lady was in heat.

* * *

•

That afternoon, Mrs. O'Leary went to the butcher shop to visit Frank Yeats, and although she hadn't any money and her rations were next to nothing, she came home with a fresh calf's liver and some pig knuckles, plus quite a blush in her cheeks.

They ate rather better after that. Sometimes Frank came over to visit of an evening, and brought along a little extra something for them, or some scraps and bones for Lady to chew on. Sometimes Joey's Mam would put him to bed early, and he'd lie there, listening to the two adults laughing, talking low; sometimes he'd hear a grunt or a moan. Once his Mam cried out, and he went to check on her. She was sitting on Frank's lap, with her skirt draped over their thighs and her blouse undone.

"Mam, are you all right?"

Frank snorted. "All right? Yes, she's all right. She's grand, now go back to bed, you little bastard."

His mother chuckled uneasily and smacked Frank's knee, in a gesture that fought between playfulness and genuine anger. She spoke to Joey: "Go on, love. Bed."

Some weeks later, Lady gave birth to seven tiny puppies under Joey's bed. The landlord having not replaced the broken glass, the window was still dark and boarded. The room was cool and quiet, even in late summer.

Joey was so proud. He crept under the bed and counted their little black-and-white bodies. Lady regarded him with proud, loving eyes, and thumped her tail on the floor as her puppies nursed, squealing and whimpering. Two of the puppies weren't moving, and since he'd already seen dead animals at the butcher shop or run over in the street, and he'd been to his gran's viewing, he understood all about death. After all, he was almost five. He took those puppies and put them in an old shoe box, and said to Lady, "I'll give them a nice funeral." He brought the dog a bowl of water, and a dish of bread and canned milk. After a while she came out, obviously tired and hungry, and after she ate her fill, gave him a look, and knowing what she wanted, he said, "Sure and I'll watch them."

He let her out, and left the door open for her. When she had done her business, she came back in and found her boy under the bed, lying on his back, with a line of five sleeping puppies arrayed down his small, warm body. She lay back down, and Joey set them to her nipples, one by one. Of course the puppies had each already chosen their own, so there was some jostling to regain the natural order of things. The boy lay there for a long time in the peaceful shadows, enjoying the comforting sounds and the smell of milk. Then he got up and buried the two dead pups nicely in the backyard. He made a cross out of a couple of twigs and a rubber band (it actually came out more like a lopsided X) and stuck it in the little mound of dirt.

That evening, Frank came home with Joey's mother. Joey was playing pirates in a nearby tree with Liam and Simon, who lived across the way and were already in second grade. The boys took out their cardboard telescopes and surveyed the bomb crater five doors down.

"I think it's really a volcano," said Liam. "Did you know Sugarloaf Mountain's a stink volcano?"

"Distinct," corrected Simon. "It don't blow off no more." Simon had seen the bodies from the bombing lain out on the ground, with stained blankets over them, the other morning before they were taken away. He was seven, and he knew everything. He was sure there had been human sacrifices, at least it looked like that in the movies.

Of course children weren't allowed to go anywhere near the crater, but they liked to watch the big men with their shovels digging for treasure, building forts and whatever else it is that people do when their neighborhood has been bombed by the Jerries.

It was all very confusing but lots of fun, and once in a while one of the boys would bomb passersby below with chestnuts, but everyone wore felted wool hats, so it didn't hurt much. People yelled and shook their fists, then walked away, smiling wryly, because hell, every child on that street could have been killed, and chestnuts are nothing compared to bombs, and it was a miracle that tree was still standing.

Joey the Pirate looked down at his mother and Frank going into the house, and hollered down to them: "Avast, ye swabs, did ye bring me any plunder?"

His Mam just laughed, but Frank scowled. "Git down from there. You'll break yer neck."

Joey climbed down, and ran into the house. "Lady had her puppies!" he cried. "Come see."

"Yeh," said Frank. "Let's do that."

Joey led Frank to the bedroom and squirmed back under the bed. The puppies were awake, some of them nursing, some just sort of lolling around. None of their eyes were open yet, of course. Lady thumped her tail at him and smiled, laying her ears back.

Mrs. Goggin's voice had an odd, uncertain quality. "Joseph, you know the puppies can't stay, right? They'll be messin' all over the floor, and squeakin' all night. Keep us up."

"I don't mind, Mam. I'll clean up after them. We can put newspapers down, that's what Mark's mam did."

"Son," said Frank. "We need to move them. Why not hand them out to us?"

"Where will they sleep?"

"The kitchen. They'll be warmer."

"Oh. All right then."

One by one, Joey took the puppies from their mother and handed them back to Mrs. O'Leary's hands. Lady grew increasingly nervous. The puppies were keening for their mother, a tiny, shrill call that got under Joey's skin. Lady whined, and then growled low as the puppies grew more distressed. When he got to the last puppy, Lady bared her teeth and snapped at him. Startled, he dropped the puppy, it yelped, and Lady bit his hand.

He backed out hastily, crying, utterly shocked that his friend would turn on him this way.  
"She bit me, Mam!"

Frank was in the kitchen with the crying puppies, and Mrs. O'Leary snatched her son up in her arms as Lady came rushing out from under the bed, barking furiously, and dashed into the kitchen.

Mrs. O'Leary's arms were tense around her son. She called out to the kitchen. "Don't hurt her!"

Frank said, "Right."

Mrs. O'Leary shut the door. She kissed Joey's bitten, bleeding hand. "Ah, there, Laddy, it's gonna be all right. Just a scratch."

Out in the kitchen, Lady was barking frantically. Then she yelped and went quiet. The puppies, too, grew gradually quieter.

Under the bed, the last puppy remained, setting up a tiny, desolate howl, almost like a baby crying. Mrs. O'Leary got down on her knees and reached into the dark for the soft bundle. She cradled it in her hands a moment. Joey had never seen her cry before, but she had tears in her eyes now.

"Ah, poor little banshee," she sighed. "Joseph, you stay here, I'll make sure everything's all... settled."

She left the bedroom with the puppy. Joey sat down on his bed, sobbing "Why? Why?" and squeezing his sore hand.

His mother came back in, an eternity later, and sat down on his bed next to him. She put an arm around his shoulders.

"Lady's gone, love."

"Where?"

"Frank found a new home for her. And the puppies too. We just didn't have room for them here. We couldn't feed them."

She pulled the boy into her lap. She smelled lovely: a little perfume, hair spray, lavender soap.

He snuffled against her blue woolen cardigan, playing with the faceted jet buttons. "Where did he take them?"

"He has a friend. With a farm."

"Can we visit her? She'll miss me. She'll be so lonely! I know she didn't mean it."

"Ah, love. Sometimes dogs turn on people. It's their nature. I know she couldn't help herself, but it's not safe for a dog like that to be around children."

"Aren't there children at the farm?"

"What... oh, you mean where Lady and the puppies are going? No. All grownups. They'll know just what to do. She'll behave."

"Mam..."

"Yes, love."

"Two of the puppies were born dead. I buried them in the back garden."

"What, all by yourself?"

"Yeh."

"There's a good lad!" she said, and kissed his hair. She sounded like she might be crying again, which scared him. He didn't want to be scared. He didn't want her to be sad. He swallowed, and said, "I was getting kind of tired of Lady anyway." He hated himself for saying it, but anything, _anything_ to stop the sadness.

"Oh, now don't say that."

"She smelled bad sometimes." He leaned his head against his mother's shoulder. "Will it be just you and me now?"

"Yeh, sure."

"No Frank?"

"Don't you like Frank?"

"He's scary."

"Not atall, he isn't. A brave boy like you, sayin' such a thing?" she said lightly, but he could hear something like a lie in her voice. He had nothing to say to it.

* * *

•••

The next morning, Joey's mother took him shopping. She let Joey carry the mesh shopping bag, and slung her leather purse over her shoulder. At the grocer she bought some margarine and bread, a basket of locally grown strawberies, a few tins of milk, and some canned peas. And she bought Joey a rare treat: a piece of peppermint penny-candy.

"You know what they call these? Starlight mints. Because they put stars in your eyes if you suck 'em too fast," she smiled.

She was right. It was minty enough to be almost painful. He sucked at the candy slowly. Parts of it dissolved away faster, making sharp little edges against his tongue.

They continued on to the butcher shop, only a few blocks away. Yeats' Fine Meats (no, they didn't rhyme, although the local urchins joked about it: "Is it Yateses Mateses or Yeetses Meetses?") was a square brick building, with big glass windows across the front, though they were boarded now, in case of another air raid.

Inside, the butcher shop was dark and cool. Frank's dad was there, Old Mister Yeats with his immense gray eyebrows and mustache that took up most of his face, and Frank's younger brother, Paul, who had a pimply, beaten-down look to him.

There wasn't much in the glass cases, it being wartime; most of the meat was smoked, brined, tinned, or salted (or a combination thereof).

Old Man Yeats peered over the top of his counter and smiled down at Mrs. O'Leary. He boomed, "Mornin', Missus."

"Good morning, Mr. Yeats," she smiled. "Is Frank in today?"

"No, took the mornin' to pick up a delivery. We'll have beef tomorrow."

She tried to hide her disappointment. "Do you have any specials today?"

"Oh yeh. He pointed to a couple of trays. "Mutton for Stew" - the bones and meat in big chunks, but it hadn't been much of a sheep, just some skinny little thing.

"And rabbit!", headless, neatly skinned, tails and feet removed. Five _very_ small rabbits. Babies. "Fresh today!"

Joey looked at the rabbits and the peppermint candy caught in the back of his throat. He doubled over, coughing, and his mother took him outside. "You just wait here, love."

When she came back outside with her little packet from the butcher, Joey had run off home. She wasn't too concerned. She called him down out of his tree around 7:00, and said "I bought some bacon at the butcher's today."

"Bacon?" he said skeptically.

She nodded. "The fresh meat looked a little off, don't ya think?"

He blew out an enormous sigh of relief. She gave him a bit of rendered bacon fat on toast for his dinner, and let him snuggle in her bed that night. He still missed Lady, but it wasn't so bad. It got a little easier every day.

* * *

•

A few months later, Mrs. O'Leary married Frank Yeats. She and her son moved out of the miserable little cottage five doors down from the bomb crater, and got a couple of rooms upstairs at the butcher shop. Joey started school in Septembe. They all lived together peaceably enough, Joey with his own room, and never wanting for anything to eat. Old Man Yeats took it upon himself to teach the boy how to play concertina, and they got on well in the evenings after the shop closed, often singing together while the boy struggled to work the keys and bellows at the same time.

Joey never like Frank, never trusted him, but just kept his head down, waiting, behaving himself. Making himself invisible. Despite that, Frank took Joey on as an after-school apprentice when the boy turned seven. The war seemed to be nearly over, Old Man Yeats had severe arthritis and bunions that made work a torture, and it was time to start the next generation.

On their first day, Frank showed Joey his array of knives. Joey watched him sharpening them, and laying them out on a clean, white towel on the sturdy wooden butcher's block.

Frank said, "First thing you need to know about meat: know where it comes from. People will eat just about anything if you stick little frilly toothpicks in it. They're eejits. That's how you make your profit."

Joey nodded, eyes wide.

"Second thing, make your kills quick. Fighting and fear bruise the meat. Makes it harder to sell. Understand?"

"Yeh."

"Third thing: Your Mam belongs to me now. If you fuck up, if you try to come between us in any way, it's not me that's gone. It's you." He pointed to the glass case, where cuts of meat from anonymous pigs, cattle, sheep, goats, rabbits, chickens were arrayed in deathly glory amongst occasional sprigs of wilting parsley. "You think anyone would notice you? Amongst all that?"

"Mam would."

In a flash, Frank grabbed Joey's wrist and twisted it behind his back, spinning the boy around and smacking his forehead against the butcher's block. Joey saw stars, not like in the cartoons: little wiggling bundles of light. More like sparklers exploding in his head. He tasted blood.

Frank's boozy breath stank in his nostrils, Frank's meaty hand clamped on his wrist like a vise, Frank's body pressed too hotly against him, and Frank's voice rasped in his ear, sweeping the stars away like sawdust. "And it would be damn easy for a knife to slip. For you to cut an artery. For you to run away from home, without so much as a word, because you're too damn lazy to work."

Joey could say nothing. Frank straightened up and ruffled the boy's greasy hair. "So," Frank said. "You'll work hard. You'll follow directions. You'll behave." He grabbed a towel, already bloody from butchering, and dabbed at a little gash in the boy's forehead. "You don't need a bandage, that's nothin'."

"Yes, sir." Joey's voice was small, even smaller than he was. One day, though, he'd be bigger than Frank. He was counting on that.

"Good lad. Now, let me show you how to clean the butcher's block..."

* * *

•••

**Cork, Ireland, Christmas Eve 1986**

The Yeat's Meats delivery truck rolled into Cork in late afternoon, and stopped at the delivery dock of the Southtown Hotel. Joe Yeats, now 45 years old and strong as an ox, had inherited the business after the untimely deaths of his mother and stepfather in a gory murder-suicide. Yeats was well-established as one of the best commercial butchers on the east coast of Ireland, but he liked getting out of the office and meeting his clients, so he sometimes went on local jaunts just to keep his hand in, and he sure as hell didn't like paying his employees overtime, so on Christmas Eve, he did some of the deliveries himself. He unloaded 300 pounds of beef barons, 20 pounds filet mignon, 80 pounds beef chuck, 40 pounds rack of lamb, 20 of pork loin, 70 of smoked ham, and a barrel of pickled pigs' feet. He knocked off work and went down to the local pub for dinner and a few whiskeys. Then he visited a brothel, and ninety minutes later another hidden after-hours club where he could get pep pills, then staggered back to his truck at about 12:30 a.m., feeling no pain. The night was cold, wreathed in white mist that was starting to freeze on the streets and walls. In such low visibility, it would be a nasty ride home on narrow roads. He thought about getting a hotel room for the night. Not much open that late on Christmas, though.

In the alley behind the hotel was the kitchen's loading dock, and there were also containers for its refuse: grease to be rendered into soap or tallow; vegetable scraps to be served up as pig slop; and there was a dumpster for bones and other animal by-products. The bones were picked up by a company that made bone-meal agricultural fertilizer. As he was about to get into his truck, Joe glanced back and saw a movement in the dim light: a tall man with several large plastic trash bags.

Something about the scene made the fine hairs stand up all the way down Joe's spine. He approached cautiously in the shadow of the truck, and watched as the man emptied a bag into the bone dumpster. They clunked and jostled against the metal sides and the other stinking bones awaiting them. The bones had been well-cleaned and hacked up fairly well, but Joe knew exactly what they were. He knew a human hipbone when he saw one.

He carried a switchblade with him, always, sheathed discreetly but sharp as death. The man at the dumpster jumped and flinched when Joe's blade opened with a metallic click. His startled face in the streetlight was so young, angular with brown eyes and curly hair. Barely more than a teen. The boy hesitated, trying to decide whether to fight or flee. He set down the bags abruptly, then picked them back up again, knowing better than to leave them behind, and started to run for his little hatchback car. Joe laughed. He spent a lot of time on his feet, he was strong, and he wasn't trying to run with close to sixty pounds of human bones bumping against his legs.

He grabbed the boy's arm and said, "What yer got in the bags, Laddy?" His blade nicked the kid's throat.

"Just... just some bones. I work at a restaurant down the street, we ran out of room..."

"Bullshit. Show me."

"Look, I, I don't know what you think this is, but trust me..." Oh, this kid was good. Wide-eyed and sweet, all innocence, a faint American accent discernible in his brogue.

Joe slammed his fist into the boy's face. He toppled back on his ass, stunned and wheezing. Joe peered into one of the bags. "So this woman. Where'd you do her?"

"What? I didn't..."

"Shut up. Is anyone lookin' for her yet?"

The boy looked puzzled.

"If you want to hide the bones, you need to break them down more. You think nobody's gonna notice the top of a human skull?" He smiled over at the boy. "Amateur."

The kid's eyes narrowed, just slightly. "You're a professional?"

Joe nodded at his truck. "Just animals. But I am good at cuttin' 'em up. Always wanted to... uh... take it up a notch."

He set down the bag, and put out his hand to the kid. "Joseph O'Leary Yeats, fine meats."

Their hands clasped, and he pulled the kid up. Since both their hands were dirty, they wiped them on their respective pants legs and chuckled.

"Michael McGowran. Computers and... acquisitions."

"I've a spare mallet in my truck kit. Let's break her down proper."

They talked a bit as they finished up the job of disposing of not one, but two skeletons in McGowran's bags. That night, Michael McGowran brought Joe Yeats home for an after-hours Christmas drink, and Joe met the lovely Rose O'Shaunessy, who was up late, practicing her craft on a face recently removed from its owner. She was in her second year of university, and hoped to go into medical school. Joe could easily see she had the talent to succeed at anything she pursued.

Thus was the beginning of a long, enjoyable, and profitable partnership.

* * *

_If anyone gives you a choice between learning how to make laws or sausages, definitely stay on the law side.  
_

•


	46. Chapter 46

_So sorry it's been such a long wait for this chapter! The next is already written, and contains some lovely Betsyness, but I have been beating my head against a wall with a certain situation in this story that was refusing to resolve itself until I remembered..._

**The Lost Boy**

**Too Soon Chapter 45**

* * *

_I know something about opening windows and doors  
I know how to move quietly to creep across creaky wooden floors  
I know where to find precious things in all your cupboards and drawers  
Slipping the clippers  
Slipping the clippers through the telephone wires  
The sense of isolation inspires  
Inspires me_

_The Intruder – Peter Gabriel _

**5:42 p.m., April 27, 1991, Cork, Ireland**

Danny Halloran was on his way home from after-school rugby practice. He traveled his usual route, behind his teammate, Mark McRainy, taunting him the whole way. "Hey, little fella. Buy us an ice cream? You can have a lick if you ask nice."

McRainy, who at ten years old was the same age but a full foot shorter, glanced back over his shoulder at Danny. "Ah, fuck yerself, Frankenstein," he quavered, as he did every day just before Danny knocked him down. Danny overtook him, and had him on the ground in no time. McRainy always took a different route home in the hope of eluding Halloran on the way, because nobody wanted to get beaten up with him anymore, and so there was no one to stand with him now, here on this quiet side-street between school and their homes. They had been playmates as small boys, living two doors down from one another. But Danny had always played roughly, and eventually McRainy's mother forbade him from playing with Danny at all, because someone always got hurt – almost invariably, her own little Markie.

McRainy had stopped tattling on Danny. Danny knew where he lived... and worse, he knew that McRainy's beloved cat, Muffler, liked to sneak outside and sun herself in the park.

Danny had once speculated, "So, do ya think little Muffler would land on her feet if she fell off yer roof?"

* * *

Danny, in his turn, had hurts all his own, hence the children's nickname, "Frankenstein". The head injury that made a little dent in his forehead and pushed his brow out, making a habitual scowl. The accidental burns. The dislocated arm. One leg, very slightly shorter than the other, from his fall downstairs. Danny never said how they really happened. His mam told everyone he was accident-prone. Irene (Mrs. John) Halloran was a bit accident-prone herself. Sometimes she wore turtlenecks even on warm days. Sometimes she wore dark glasses at night.

The neighbors heard the yelling sometimes, the occasional scream. They never called the police, because Detective John Halloran _was_ the police, and it was nobody's business what he did on his time off.

* * *

Mark's already-cracked glasses went flying again. This time Danny put a boot down on them, hard, and they collapsed into fragments. Danny grinned. "Oops."

He knelt over the smaller boy and snickered. "So do I get to hit ya today, or will you be coughin' it up without a fuss?" He raised a fist and McRainy flinched.

"All right, all right, all right!" McRainy fished in his pocket and pulled out some cash. "Stuff it up yer arse."

"I'd rather stuff it up yours," Danny sneered. He stood up and pocketed the money. "Now you stay. STAY. Feckin' ugly dog." He turned and walked away a few steps down the sidewalk.

A car approached slowly, and a beautiful red-haired woman smiled at him out the window.

The car pulled to a stop. "Are you boys all right?" she said. Her voice was a low, velvety purr. A handsome man sat in the driver's seat beyond her. He smiled, his brown eyes warm and friendly.

Danny said, "We're grand." He turned back toward Mark. "Ain't we?"

Mark had climbed to his feet and nodded grimly. "We're just grand." He was trying not to cry. Mark's Da always had a fit when his glasses got busted. Last time, he'd been grounded from TV for three whole days.

The car continued on its way. Danny continued on his, Mark trailing behind. At the little grocery shop, Danny stopped and bought himself an ice cream sandwich, and some Wine Gums candies, and a glass bottle of Glucozade. Eating the ice cream sandwich and with the Glucozade bottle tucked under his elbow, he walked the additional three blocks, and when he turned into the square where he and Mark were neighbors, he saw it had been blockaded and marked with yellow crime scene tape. There were two police cars and an ambulance in front of his very own house. He dropped the bottle, and it smashed on the cobblestones of their twee little courtyard.

The whole world was compressed into the vision before him, everything else blurred to a harsh blue-and-white, flickering veil. A couple of medics had brought a gurney down the front stairs and were wheeling it toward the ambulance. Danny's mother was covered in blood, her face beaten so badly that one could only recognize her by her auburn hair and familiar teal-green cardigan. They'd put an oxygen mask on her face, and her eyes were swollen shut in wads of purpled flesh. Her hands and arms and neck were swathed in bandages, leaking red.

Rooted to the spot, Danny stared silently as the gurney was wheeled up to the ambulance and his mother was loaded in. When the doors snapped shut, and the ambulance started away, he ran after it, unable to hear his own screams or the sound of the sirens. Strong hands stopped him in his tracks, and a garda was holding him by the shoulders. "Come with me, son. Come with me," said a quiet voice. Someone large and strong picked him up and carried him into the house.

He heard someone else say, "Don't let him see the kitchen," and he was taken to the living room and set in the big plaid easy chair, the door closing on a roomful of red beyond. His father was there, sitting on the couch, and there was blood on his face and shirt, blood on his hands. He had a wild, stunned look on his face.

Danny stared across at his father. "So you finally did it. You bastard."

The words sounded small and high in his child's voice. Foolish.

His father stared back at him, his voice shaking, his eyes pleading. "No. Danny, listen, don't say a..."

"You beat the shite out o' Mam and you beat the shite out o' me and now she's dead."

"Danny, no. She's not dead, she'll be fine, she'll be able to tell us who..."

"Bullshit!" the boy screamed. He rose out of the chair and launched himself at his father. "BULL FUCKING _SHIT_." The fists that caused such damage to kids smaller than him were useless against the police who restrained him. He struggled, screaming and crying.

Now his father was weeping too. "I didn't do it. I came home, I found her, she was on the floor. Danny, I didn't hurt her."

"This time! You didn't hurt her _this time?_ Who gives a shite _when_ you did it?" He turned to the gardai holding him. "Put him in jail. Let him rot."

The gardai said, "Calm down, Daniel. We'll get it sorted." He looked long and hard at Danny's father, and then at the other officer. "We'll need some place for this one to stay. Get Child Services in on it."

•

* * *

Danny's mother didn't even make it to the hospital alive.

* * *

•

After examining both the late Irene Halloran's autopsy and Danny's general health, Irish Child Welfare determined that John Halloran was an unfit father. Danny stayed two years with his mother's sister, but she couldn't handle him; and then five months with his father's brother, who beat him black and blue for stealing liquor out of the cabinet. He was then sent to his mother's younger sister, who threw him out when he kicked her dog for barking at the postman. By the age of sixteen, Danny had gone through seven additional foster homes in the public welfare system. He had learned to make sure he was the meanest man in the room.

In the meantime, John Halloran went through his very own wringer. He might not have been kind to his wife or son, but he had loving feelings toward them, and was sure it wasn't his fault that everyone had betrayed him. Based on the dry blood spatter in the kitchen, and the amount of blood that had pooled and congealed by the time he found her, he had a solid alibi for Irene's murder (he'd been at the pub after work). So the court dropped charges for her death. But John Halloran spent time in jail for child and spousal abuse, and of course he lost any chance of ever working in law enforcement again. His friends and entire family (what was left of it) turned against him. The case that had consumed him – burglaries, home invasions, and serial murders that somehow all seemed to be tied elusively together – remained unsolved. He was convinced that whoever murdered Irene was behind the others, and they had attempted to frame him to get him off their case. That obsession increased his downward spiral into the drink. Unemployed, he lost his fine home and his car. Eventually he became a security guard for an industrial park, rented a bedsitter flat in Tallacht, and spent his evenings watching TV and reading true crime novels. Until, sometime around autumn of 2012, when he started getting the notes about Richard Castle.  
"Castle knows what happened to her."  
"Castle is responsible."  
"Check Castle's travel itineraries."

Halloran had to pull in some very old favors. He had to make calls to people who had shunned him. He had to break into places, and files, that put him at risk of more jail time. If Castle knew who had killed Halloran's wife, then the author might also know the fate of his son, Danny. Halloran just knew better than to ask directly.

He wasn't about to have Castle coming after him, too.

* * *

•

**7:19 p.m., Kilkenny, Ireland, December 24, 1997**

Danny Halloran limped out of the fast food restaurant with a smear of catsup still on his cheek. He smelled of french fry grease and adolescent sweat. He cut a depressing figure, in sodden blue jeans and a gray hoodie, his face marred with acne and scars, the neglected teeth grown in crooked, his slightly shorter leg causing the slightest limp. He hadn't played rugby in years, and he lived on fast food. Had he not had a recent growth spurt, he would have been a bit on the doughy side. But right now, he was skin and bones, all 6'4" of him, and he desperately needed new shoes for feet that had grown two sizes in three months.

School had let out for the holidays, and he was expected to return to the group home for the week, maybe see his Da on Christmas afternoon for a miserable hour to get his annual stupid Christmas gift: a hazelnut chocolate bar and an envelope containing twenty quid. The rest of the two-week holiday between Christmas and Epiphany would be spent watching TV, hanging out at the video arcade, reading comic books, and fapping in the shower, which was the only time he ever got to spend truly alone.

He was taking a shower now, but it was a cold one. Icy rain needled at his skin, soaking through the sweatshirt of his hoodie. Walking with his head down, he didn't see the couple approaching him, arm in arm. They collided, and the man said, "Watch it, ye great lummox."

"Fuck off," Danny snarled. But before he took his next breath, he found himself on the ground, wheezing, the man standing over him, an expensively-shod foot pressing down on his chest.

The woman put out a staying hand. Her voice was so beautiful, so drop-dead sexy. "Michael, don't." She bent over Danny, her long, auburn hair hanging around her lovely face. She looked a bit older than Michael, who appeared to be in his late twenties. She held out a hand to Danny. "You're just a lad, aren't ya?"

Stunned, the boy reached up to her, then withdrew his hand, for some reason expecting a trick. Nobody had spoken so kindly to him since the last whining social worker placed him at the orphanage with a lie: _"We'll find you a good home soon enough, Daniel. Just try to be on your best behavior." _Danny's best behavior was not generally considered up to snuff.

He scrambled to his feet, mostly on his own.

She said, "You all right there?" As he stood, she barely came up to his shoulder, even in heels.

The brown-eyed man, whose mild face belied his lethal speed and strength, looked up at Danny with a rueful grin. "Sorry. She got mugged last week in Limerick. I'm a bit on edge."

Danny nodded. His nose was running, and he sniffled. "'Sallright." Hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, he turned to go.

The woman's voice called after him. "Wait. Can't we give you a ride home or something? You're soaked through."

"Our car's just there," the man said. Somewhere behind Danny, a car alarm beeped once, and he saw reflected light flash briefly off the wet street.

Danny knew better than to take rides from strangers, but...

"All right," he said.

The woman smiled. "I'm Rose. You can call me Rosie."

The man extended his hand. "Michael. Mike. Whatever." They shook hands, and to Danny's surprise, Rose got into the back seat, slid over to make room for him, and patted the leather beside her.

"Come on in," she said. "It's cold out there."

The car was already warm and smelled of new leather. Danny slumped in next to her. She reached across him, her hand brushing against his thigh, and dug around for the seatbelt, handing it to him to fasten. "It's a little tricky," she grinned. Her perfume reminded him of his mother's, although he had no idea what it was called. She was so sweet. "Comfy?"

He nodded. He was all legs and still growing, and it was the first time in years he'd been in a car with enough leg room.

She said, "Oh, I forgot to ask your name."

"Patrick," he lied.

She looked at him skeptically. "All right. Patrick it is." He suddenly wondered if he'd seen her before, but he couldn't remember when or where.

Her hand rested on his thigh. It wasn't the first time someone had done that – one of the "counselors" at the orphanage had a thing for boys – but she didn't push him. As the car left the curb, Rosie looked away out the window, her white throat arching. He didn't quite know what to make of her behavior, half-sexy and half-motherly, and then her hand was gone and he missed its suggestive warmth and weight. She unbuttoned her trench coat to the chest, revealing discreet but enticing cleavage. "Warmer in here," she smiled, fanning herself with a delicate hand. Her nails were a bright, metallic gold, no doubt in the spirit of the holidays.

Michael glanced back in the rear view mirror. "So, Patrick, where to?"

The boy hesitated. "Eh, Donnelly Square will do. I can walk from there."

"Oh, we can't see you to your door?"

He cleared his throat. "Mam pitches a fit when I hitch rides."

Rosie's hand was on his now, interlacing their fingers. Hers were tiny and delicate, lost in his clumsy mitt.

"How old are you... 'Patrick'?" Her pale-green eyes flickered, her lashes batting.

"Eh, nineteen." A few years' padding wouldn't hurt.

"Nineteen! And your, uh, mother still tells you what to do?" There was a hint of derision in her voice.

"Yeh," he muttered. Mam wouldn't have liked this. But she was dead. He could barely remember her face. It didn't matter any more. "Not so much now, though."

Rosie slid a finger inside his palm, then up his wrist, making soft, shivery trails that set cold fire to his nervous system. Rainwater trickled from his hair, down his cheek, and he wiped his face with his free hand, not drying anything, just rearranging the water to run down his neck instead.

Rosie said, "You seem like such a _big_ boy. Ready to be makin' decisions your ownself."

"Yeh."

Michael said, "What do you say you come home with us. Get out of those wet clothes."

Rosie's hand left Danny's, and then it was moving deliberately up the inside seam of his wet jeans. He was fourteen, his genitals on a perpetual hair-trigger. He'd gotten a boner looking at a picture of Princess Margaret the other day, for God's sakes, and he shifted, embarrassed, but Rosie's searching finger persisted. She found his erection already straining at the gate. She said to Michael, "He's almost as wet as I am."

They'd been using an umbrella. Her hair and coat were practically dry.

Danny swallowed fear, watching Michael's eyes darting back and forth between the rainy road and the rear view mirror. Rosie unclipped her seat belt, turned to the boy, and rolled over, straddling his lap. Her coat hitched up, and she placed his hands onto her thighs, which were bare above her black, silky stocking-tops. He shuddered with desire, enraptured by her salacious gaze. Although still young-looking and lovely, she already had fine lines on her throat and around her eyes, and had to be at least twice his age. She knew exactly what she was doing, and it was already beyond his wildest dreams. She was the first woman who'd ever invited him to look at her, let alone touch her. He'd tried to feel up a few girls. It hadn't gone over well. This was going so well he was glad he'd already gotten off in the shower that morning, or he would have lost it before his zipper even came down. If it was going to come down. Was she really on his lap?

As they swung around the corner, she kissed him, sucking hard on his tongue, her crotch pressed against his. He was swamped with a warm steam of pheromones, and when he moved his hands up to find she was wearing no panties. His hips strained of their own accord against the seat belt. She unbuttoned her coat all the way, revealing just a black shelf-style bra, and a black garter belt, vivid against her pale skin.

Rose grinned and kissed the boy, and unfastened his seat belt. All his fear fell away.

"You like 'em young," he rasped.

From the front seat, Michael startled him. "We're the only ones who can keep up with her."

"Now Michael, watch and we don't have an accident," she snickered.

Danny kept up with her, indeed, awed and thrilled at losing his virginity to a real woman in the leather back seat of a big black car, with her collapsing on him in a moaning heap before they arrived at their estate up in Howth.

* * *

•

They had a gate, operated by remote, with a short but elegant gravel drive, a formal garden, a beautiful, fully-restored stone Georgian house with a red front door. They took his wet clothes, gave him a fluffy robe to change into, and put him by the gas fireplace with a homemade plate of turkey and potatoes and gravy, and a pretty glass bowl of layered Christmas trifle. After this late supper, a hit of pharma-grade coke, and a glass of wine, he kept up with Rose again in the triple-headed hot shower (Michael really seemed to prefer watching to participating, and kept his hands mostly to and on himself, never touching Danny, and rarely even touching Rose). At about midnight, with Rose passed out smirking in the master bed, Michael showed Danny to the guest room, gave him a spare toothbrush and said, "Make yourself at home. See you in the morning."

Danny lay in the warm, deliciously soft, finally-big-enough bed, watching rain patter on the window. He was drained, and as he drifted off, he vaguely wondered if it was all a wonderful dream. Then again, perhaps these two were serial killers or something, and they'd gut him in his sleep and turn him into a plastic-covered lawn ornament. Right then, his body sated from three bouts with Rose and an absolutely divine back rub, he didn't care.

* * *

On Christmas morning, after sleeping fully stretched out in the imported California-King-Size guest bed, Danny awoke to find Rose standing over him, wearing nothing but a Santa hat and a strategically placed golden bow.

"Merry Christmas!" She climbed onto the bed and pulled down the covers. "I see your tree is all ready to decorate."

She leaned over and kissed him, and in the gray morning light, he realized her body was laced with a network of tiny, nearly invisible silvery-white scars. He reached up to cup her impossibly round breasts, and she smiled. "You like them?"

He nodded. "You have the best boobies I've ever seen." His voice cracked, childlike.

"I'm a plastic surgeon," she smiled. "I did it myself."

"Didn't it hurt?" He traced a thick finger along the delicate lines.

"Oh, not so much," she smiled. "It's amazing what I can accomplish with the right anesthetics." Her hand cupped his cheek, then she ran a finger across the dent in his forehead  
(age 2: 'Danny slipped in the bathtub.').  
She murmured, "I can fix this."

She traced the break in his nose  
(age 7: 'Danny fell off his bicycle.').  
"I can straighten this."

She straddled him, running one foot down his leg to stroke his calf with her toes, the scar where bone had punctured through skin when his father threw him across the room.  
(age 5: 'Danny fell out of a tree.').  
"And I know an orthopedic surgeon who can even out your leg. I can make you look like a movie star." She purred, "You'll have girls all over you."

He smiled weakly. "But I have a nice lady all over me right now."

"Not _all_ over." She lowered herself slowly onto him, wincing a little, still sore from the night before. "Mmmmm. This," she smiled, "This I don't need to fix." His eyes widened, she grimaced a little in pain, and he was enveloped in her warmth.

Danny said, "But I can't pay for anything like that." She rocked against him, her breasts bobbing, and he thrust involuntarily.

She nipped at his earlobe. "Oh, but you are! There are different kinds of payment," she said. He moaned, and she added, "Michael and I just need some help with things, from time to time."

"What kind of things?"

She stopped, looking him full in the face. "Now don't you worry about that. Just follow directions and be yourself. You'll be grand, Danny Halloran."

He grunted. "How... - uh!" Panting, he gritted out, "My name's Patrick. Patrick, uh Dempsey!"

She was moving on him, slow and utterly sure of herself, and he was entranced by everything about her. She caressed his jaw and said tenderly, "We've been watching you for a long time, Danny."

He gasped as she worked at him, and he could not help but reach up to her. "Those tits," he mumbled, cross-eyed, from somewhere in Heaven.

"And now you're here with us, and as long as you keep quiet and follow directions, your life is going to be a wonderful thing."

"Uh-kay!" he choked out. He flipped her, she giggled, and he took over, past shyness now, his hips jerking fast into her, verging on rough.

She barked a laugh, grimaced and snarled, "Harder."

The door opened. Danny froze, still unsure of his position with Michael, but buried deep in his wife all the same.

"I see you're awake," Michael said cheerfully. He was wearing silk pajamas and carrying a spatula.

Rose said, "Good morning, love."

"Come down when you're finished. I'm making pancakes."

Danny probably could have moved but didn't want to, still braced on his straight arms, with Rose's calves tightly locked around his waist. Michael stepped over to the bed and slipped his head between them "(No, no, don't get up"), leaning down to kiss his wife. She grabbed the discarded Santa hat off the pillow and fitted it over his head. Michael sauntered out of the room, laughing, "Don't let her wear you out, kid."

Rose smiled up at Danny and gave him a squeeze. "Now, where were we?"

"He didn't hit me," Danny murmured.

* * *

•

Rose was true to her word. It took eight months to get his face fixed, his leg properly repaired, his skin cleared up. In the meantime, they made him study online, and brought in a tutor to help him bring his grades up in maths. He liked to play video games, liked comics, had an artistic streak no one had ever noticed or encouraged before. As long as he kept his academic marks up, they were happy to pay for classes in anything he wanted to study, in preparation for getting him into university. They wanted him to make his way in the world. They wanted him to be useful.

They had other things to teach him as well. Michael was practically a magician, and Rose, his beautiful assistant. And together she and Michael taught the boy all kinds of lessons, taking it slowly, easing him in a little at a time: How to misdirect attention when you've got a special task to accomplish. How to make someone disappear in broad daylight. How to watch people without being seen. How to make someone beg, or cry, or scream, or wish they've never been born. How to hurt someone without leaving a mark. How to kill someone without leaving a trace. How to dispose of a body where no one would ever think to look. How to make law enforcement think someone else was a killer. Danny, who was now working out every day, and could pass for a young superhero, was an apt student. He had no doubt that eventually the triangle would fall apart, and he might very well be the odd man out. Then there might be a reckoning. Perhaps they would simply part ways. But if there was to be a last man standing, he wanted it to be him. He hadn't lived through all that shite just to die before his time.

Years went by. Eventually, after Richard Castle achieved greater and greater success, Michael and Rose went off to the U.S., the better to feed Michael's obsession. To open up new avenues of enjoyment. To win friends and influence people. To reach their full potential as practitioners of their art form. They stayed in touch with Danny and visited the estate often, laundering money, sending him drugs and girls – and drugged girls - and computer files on various devices, full of fascinating images and ideas and information about people who would rather keep all those things private. Rose opened a clinic in Costa Rica, and Danny came occasionally to visit at their vacation home there, and at their other "little" place in Topanga Canyon, where they'd often spend the winter, her taking on special clients from Hollywood and... other places. She hated cold weather.

* * *

Michael started a downward spiral after Richard Castle published a novel about a serial killer. It seemed to bring up all his own demons, and even though Rosie insisted that Michael was smarter than 'Your Brother the Dick' ever would be, Michael had to get the green rope. Had to kill the blondes. And then, of course, he had to back off, lay low. He got himself an ID as one Jerald Tyson, got himself arrested, and took some time off in prison.

Rose, meanwhile, did volunteer work, ran her clinic in Costa Rica, and came for occasional weekends to screw Danny's brains out. He'd bought a gym with his share of their take, and it was a grand place to scope out pretty people, strong people, stupid people, self-absorbed people (of course some of his customers were lovely, brilliant, and sensitive, but he didn't care about them. He liked dregs.) Also it was right at the edge of a dodgy part of Dublin. Drug addicts wandered about, and whores, and it was so easy to drag them into the shower rooms in the middle of the night, have some fun with them, hose the mess down, and dump them in the river.

All in all, Danny's life was pretty feckin' grand, right up to the day when he saw Rosie arrested on the TV. And then he knew it was time to close the loop. Whether or not Michael was alive, too much would lead back to himself.

There were witnesses. And he was going to make sure none of them got out of it alive.


	47. Chapter 47

EXTRA SPECIAL THANK YOUs to Ffreewheeler and Fembot. You are such cunning linguists!

This chapter was started over three weeks ago. I really wanted to have the climax done before Resurrection debuted, but Too Soon's muse had other plans (note, I've already written the denouement and ending. So don't panic! I swear this will not go on forever!)

With regard to Resurrection, it was SO good. Excited to see that some things I expected came true, and equally happy that they took an entirely different tack. Can't wait to learn how they're going to continue the season, &amp; I hope they give us more reveal on Castle's missing summer. Meantime, I hope fanfic will tide us all over the next couple weeks' brief but excruciating hiatus.  
•

_Monday 3/9: "I was planning on watching Castle: Resurrection tonight but there is something stupidly wrong with either my aging brain or with the stupid Byzantine system of remotes we have hooked up (one for the TV, one for the TiVo, one for the audio, and one 'universal' remote which decided to make the whole screen a uniform shade of gray when I tried to switch the aspect ratio so that everyone didn't look like they'd been run over by a steamroller. _

_That's right. ONE SHADE OF GRAY. _

_That's sadism right there, in a nutshell.  
\- agonized email to my husband/ tech support guy/ best buddy in the whole world  
_  
I am not going to call this chapter One Shade of Gray, out of sheer spite.  
I am instead going to call it:

•

**The Blue Screen of Death"**

_As for a song? Hell, I dunno.  
Pick the earworm that won't leave your head at 1:18 a.m,  
and assign that level of frustration._

* * *

**July 4, 1:18 a.m., Huntsman's Arms Hotel, County Wicklow, Ireland**

Kate leaned her forehead on her knuckles.

"Fuck this. Fuck this and the fucking bike it rode in on," she mumbled. It was fuckitall a.m. And Mary Lafferty's Irish Breakfast Tea had worn off a long time ago. Fighting that continuing low-grade, constant nausea that still plagued her, Kate was nibbling on McVitie's Digestive Ginger Biscuits, but was sorely in danger of consuming the entire packet if she kept up this rate. Small, who was sound asleep, would be waking up any time now, in the mood for spinach. Or maybe hot chocolate. Maybe both.

She and Ryan and Teresa and Hunt had looked through file, after file, after file. And had they found a Raleigh Reynolds 531 bike in International Orange?

Ohh. Hell yeah. Locked up to the wrought-iron gate or window bars of 18 of the 23 residential properties owned by Michael McGowran and the subsidiaries of his real estate holdings company. Of those 18 properties, seven were apparently occupied by families or other law-abiding private citizens, three were being remodeled, six were derelict or at least empty, and two had been converted to offices or family-owned B&amp;Bs.

They wanted to be sure. They went for the highest-resolution photos they could get, zoomed in, and yes. It was the same damn bike in every picture, with the front spokes tweaked slightly to the right.

Kate said, "Castle told me it liked to try to go in circles even when he was going in a straight line."

Hunt snickered. "So that's where he learned it."

Teresa was serious. "So much for narrowing things down."

Beckett had made middle-of-the-night phone calls to the rental agencies, remodelers, mortgage brokers, anyone she could dig up associated with each individual property. And with each business recording she reached, she heard the same chilling music – different versions, but the same damn song, over and over...

"We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,  
but we will meet again some sunny day..."

She wasn't entirely sure, but one of the singers might have been Tom Waits, accompanied on accordion, recorded on the floor of a bathroom on the third level down in Hell.

Ryan's phone buzzed, and he checked a text, then dialed his wife. "Hey, sweetie. Yeah, you too. We're all okay here. How are you and the baby?" He paused. "I'm sorry. I know your mom means well. Well, mostly." He smiled wryly. "I dunno, we're kind of up a creek right now. So much to narrow down, but no clear choice..."

Kate got up to stretch her legs, and went out to the garden. The night had gone misty, and the occasional spotlit flowers and leaves glowed, ethereal yet orderly and civilized against the wall of grey. She plucked a sprig of mint, crushed it between her fingers, and inhaled the fresh scent. That woke her brain up a little, and she smiled, reminded inanely of the last time she and Castle had brushed their teeth together, taking turns spitting in the sink.

He was impressed at how far she could spit. It was a useful trick when camping.

"God, I miss you," she spoke aloud to him, although he wasn't there, and was (she hoped) asleep. "This is almost embarrassing." She was still a little sore from their adventure under the tree. She checked her phone – he had texted her goodnight just recently, and she had promised to go to sleep right away. But how could she sleep?

She turned to look back at the hotel lobby. It had two doors, both paned glass, and the light from them shone out into the garden. She could see a young woman cleaning out the wastebaskets through one door. Through the other she could see the "Huntsman's Room", which had a huge, gorgeous fireplace and the taxidermied heads and bodies of various unfortunate creatures, both local and foreign. There was a leopard-skin rug displayed on one wall.

Kate tilted her head, trying to jiggle the handle on a stopped-up memory. "The maid or the leopard," she mused. Then, "The Lady or the Tiger. What if it's both?"

She hurried back into the conference room. "Hey, Ryan, you have that flash drive 3XK left for Castle?"

Ryan fished around and handed it to her.

"Is there a way to firewall one of our laptops so that it can get onto the web without compromising the local area network?"

Hunt nodded. "Yeah, I can create a designated net for it. Give me twenty minutes."

"Great. I'm gonna go, uh, freshen up."

"I'm coming with you," Teresa smiled. Kate didn't argue. She wasn't in the mood to get kidnapped again.

Rick had given Kate his key, and Kate let herself and Teresa into Castle's suite. It had been tidied up nicely, the flowers freshened, the towels replaced, the rumpled bed made.

Kate looked around the room and sighed. "My first time in Ireland, I would have wanted to spend on vacation. Having fun and not wanting to puke."

Teresa nodded. "It's a beautiful country." She hugged her niece. "You'll come back here together, and you'll get to see the Book of Kells and drink too much Murphy's stout at a kaylee and take the ferry out to Aranmore to see the fort."

Kate leaned against her aunt's shoulder a moment, "Giant's causeway..."

"Ring of Kerry..."

"Newgrange at winter solstice..."

"Good luck finding the bee-loud glade." They shared a chuckle at that.** They freshened up, made some hot drinks and returned to the conference room.

Hunt said, "Okay, she's ready."

"You mean he's ready."

"Hm?" Hunt arched an eyebrow.

"Castle went for the Lady. I'm going for the Tiger."

"Whoa Nellie," said Teresa. "Are you sure?"

"This laptop have anything irreplaceable on it?"

Teresa shook her head. "It's all backed up." She glanced at Ryan."Right?"

"Yeah."

Kate sat down at the laptop and inserted the flash drive. She went through the directory and chose "_The Tiger_" folder.

Instead of getting a login box for a password, immediately they got a Blue Screen of Death, and they all sighed. The laptop just sat there, a forlorn blue eye.

Kate smacked her fist on the table and swore. She got up and paced around the room. Teresa said, "You tried."

Ryan heard the music first, very faintly, and then the Blue Screen dissolved away as the strains swelled up: _"We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when..."_

Kate sighed. "I'm getting so damn sick of that song."

Jackson chuckled. "That's pretty clever, mimicking a total system failure like that."

The blue screen had dissolved completely into a new search window. This one had a simple list:

Cam_1

Cam_2

Cam_3

Cam_4

Cam_5 ...

There were 327 cams. There were no locations, but there were date-and-time stamps. Each was tuned to Greenwich Mean Time (Ireland is on that longitude, so it made sense.) So in some locations, it was 1:18 a.m., then when they looked at another location seemingly on the other side of the world, it was 1:18 p.m., and in New York it was 8:18 p.m., and the one at a pier in California or Oregon showed 5:18 p.m, with the sun still quite high over the ocean. Jackson looked closely at that one. "Santa Monica Pier," he said. "See the barge on the water? They're setting up fireworks for tonight's show."

Kate clicked Cam_1. It showed only snow. Status: disabled. The following fourteen cams were disabled as well, but then Cam_15 showed the time as 8:26 p.m., and it was mounted in the ceiling fan of the women's locker room at the 12th precinct (this one had been missed by the sweep and was still active, but nobody was there). Then a few more snow screens. Cam_19 was in the Precinct elevator... Hunt scowled. "I found that one. They must've replaced it."

Ryan said, "They're probably just tapped into the cam already there."

Hunt nodded. "Good point."

They went through the cams, one by one, quite a few tapped into city streets in Manhattan, particularly around places Castle frequented: book stores, the Natural History museum, Remy's, Black Pawn... Kate gasped in rage and had to get up and stalk around for a while. _There was a cam on their swingset!_ They ate lunch there together, quite often, since she'd returned from DC. She knew exactly where the cam was, and she fully intended to shoot its eye out the minute she got back to Manhattan.

But most of the cams were interiors and gave only the vaguest sense of location, and those locations were all over the world, apparently even one in Antarctica.

Ryan scowled at that one. It was one of Jenny's favorite websites: "Seriously? PenguinCam?"

Hunt nodded. "It's almost creepier when they take a moment to seem normal," he sighed.

Some had been disabled for whatever reason, whether discovered on location, a connection lost, or lost interest on 3XK's part couldn't be determined. Some showed people in their homes, in every room, going about mundane (and in some cases, very private) activities. Among those people were Nat Williams and Natalie Rhodes, who had just moved in together and were having very athletic sex next to a half-eaten pizza on Nat's kitchen table. They were Cam_72.

Ryan switched away hastily. Kate's face flamed red until she realized it wasn't herself and Castle in some recording.

"It's an interesting approach, but it's not us.*" Kate made a note to tell Jordan Shaw to have Natalie's apartment swept for bugs again as well.

There were a few judge's chambers, a few cams in prison medical facilities and offices, the Eiffel Tower from someone's roof a mile to the west, a cabin (not Beckett's) in the woods, a backyard swimming pool, a cheap motel room, a couple of slaughterhouses, plenty of lockups, the dressing rooms of a few expensive department stores, three strip clubs, twelve grocery stores, twenty-three coffee houses in downtown Manhattan alone (most of them closed for the evening), and a stretch of beach that Ryan recognized as the area in Long Island where dozens of bodies and parts had been buried. He called that one in to the precinct right away.

Cam 42 was in the exercise yard at a marine facility where five dolphins leaped in and out of the pool, endlessly chasing balls and ring toys. It was hard to go on from there, because they were all exhausted, sad and angry, and if anything acts as a palate cleanser for those emotions, it's dolphins.

Kate said, "When this is all over, we're all going _there_." Ryan chuckled and marked Cam_88 "Dolphin Cam :-) ".

They kept looking. And looking. Camera_273 was mounted on the ceiling of a modest, cute bedroom, its walls lined with books. A black and white cat stalked around the room, playing with a rattling ball. A young, blonde woman lay on the bed, crying. The cat jumped up on the bed to nuzzle her, and she pushed it away, impatient but not cruel.

_"Fabio, just shut up and leave me alone,"_ she sniffled. Ryan moved on to the next camera.

Kate said sharply, "Go back."

"You think that's her?" He squinted at the blonde woman. "She seems a bit heavier than Tiffany."

The woman blew her nose, and tossed the tissue at the trash bin (she missed) then shoved her head under the pillow. _"Fucking accordion,"_ she said.

That really got Kate's attention. "Accordion? Hey, Jackson, can you punch the sound up on this?"

Hunt had added a sound editing program onto the laptop before they accessed the flash drive. He took a copy over and fiddled around a bit while Kate stretched and Ryan texted Jenny.

Teresa said, "Is this live?"

Kate nodded. "I guess. And it's in our time zone."

Jackson scowled, "Who plays accordion at 2 a.m.?"

Kate said quietly, "Someone who just doesn't want to stop."

Ryan added, "Or, who wants to drive someone else crazy."

He turned the sound up, and now they could all hear the faint music amongst the hiss of the poor sound transmission.

It was a man's gruff voice, and he was singing, not an old folk song, but a satirical song by Tom Lehrer:

_...She weighted her bother down with stones _

_(sing rickety tickety tin)_

_She weighted her brother down with stones  
and sent him off to Davy Jones._  
_All they ever found were some bones_  
_and occasional pieces of skin,  
_ _of skin, occasional pieces of skin  
_ _One day when she had nothing to do  
(sing rickety tickety tin)_  
_One day when she had nothing to do_  
_she carved her baby brother in two_  
_Served him up as an Irish stew,_  
_and invited the neighbours in, _  
_'bours in, invited the neighbours in...  
_

Hunt chuckled grimly. "Crazy's right." He flagged it, and they continued down the list, looking for some kind of external shot that might lead them to her location.

**2:10 a.m.**  
Cam_293 was insanely wobbly, and they could hear heavy metal music. Beckett turned away, nauseated by the motion.

Hunt watched a moment longer and muttered, "Damn, I'm getting too old for this." He had barely slept in days, and his 93 years on this earth were wearing on him.

The Wobble-cam came to a halt, and Ryan noticed pale yellow, blurring scalloped shapes at the top of the screen. He said, "I think that's a cam installed in a bobblehead." A youngish man with dark brown skin sat behind the wheel of a truck or van, smoking a cigarette and drumming on his steering wheel.

Beckett peered at it. "Are those flowers?"

Hunt rubbed his eyes. "Any sign of a location?"

Ryan shook his head. "Nope. Maybe he'll say something and that might give an idea of the language he speaks or what it has to do with 3XK." He added, "Hey, look, I'm good for another few hours. Why don't you all get some sleep? Big day tomorrow."

They all had the same expression: three flat-out exhausted people who want to argue that they're fine, and are simultaneously relieved to be let off the hook.

Kate in particular looked like she was about to pass out. She said, "Thanks, Kevin." She glanced over at Teresa. "Aunt Tee, you mind bunking in Castle's suite with me?"

"Delighted, Katie," said Teresa. She put a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "Call if anything changes. I'll be back down at five."

* * *

• **4:10 a.m., Hallton Hotel, Dublin Airport, Presidential Suite**  
Betsy had mixed feelings. She had been taken on several horrible flying machines, was in an unfamiliar country with unfamiliar smells, was unaccustomed to the food, and had failed to catch any rabbits. Now the worst possible thing had happened: Mo was gone. He was her anchor, her alpha, and she felt adrift without him. She could smell on the hotel medic (who had administered the epinephrine) that Mo had consumed a shellfish that caused a severe allergic reaction. She could smell that Mo had almost died. She wanted, more than anything else, to go and find Mo, but nobody would let her out of the hotel room, let alone the building. After Esposito left with the staff, Gashkouri wordlessly dodged into the shared bathroom to shower and dress. Rick turned to Matt. "Hey, can you look through Atta's things and get the gear bag for Betsy?" Matt nodded. He emerged a few minutes later with Betsy's harness and pannier bag, which contained her special treats and the evidence bag. The evidence bag contained unwashed clothing, samples of Tiffany's scent: a pair of panties, a sock and a tank top, double-bagged. Mo had been reminding Betsy a couple of times a day as they went to different locations: "This is Tiffany's stuff. Do you smell Tiffany? That's Tiffany. That's Tiffany. Can you find her? Find Tiffany. Where's Tiffany?"

But now, Mo wasn't there, and the Tiffany bag stayed put away in the pannier. So did the treats. Over and over, back home and in chilly Iceland with the steamy hot springs and volcanoes and moss on the wind, and now here in this green-and-brown little land that smells of "_What The Hell Is That?_", Mo had taken the Tiffany bag out, to remind her. But aside from the very faintest whiff at the little airfield in Iceland, there was nothing to bark about, although Betsy had smelled a few distant relations and, of course, quite a few people who wore similar cosmetics or deodorant (HA!) or soap.

Rick said, "You need a walk, Bets?"

She did the dance of "_Oh, hell yes, always!_"

"Hey, Matt, can you take her for walkies and then meet up with us for a quick breakfast downstairs?"

Matt was, of course, very good with dogs and happy to get out of the air-conditioned confines of the hotel. But he had to smirk. _"Walkies?"_

Rick wiggled his fingers, imitating Wallace from The Wrong Trousers. "Time for walkies, Grommit."

"Ah," Matt nodded. "Maybe we'll find a nice Wensleydale." He chuckled, then sighed as he clipped Betsy into her harness. His daughters loved Wallace and Grommit. He pressed his lips together and added, "I wonder if Irish cheese would keep for a couple of days."

Rick said, "This is the last day."

Matt said, "Good thing. The Little Woman's ready to hunt me down and haul me home by my hair."

Rick chuckled. "If she knew you called her the Little Woman, it wouldn't be your hair."

Matt shrugged and scratched his ear, grinning. "I wouldn't mind."

Rick said, "I'm gonna take a quick shower. Meet you downstairs in 20."

Matt grabbed his key card and phone, and led Betsy into the hallway.

* * *

•

**4:28 a.m., Hallton Hotel, Dublin Airport, Presidential Suite**

Wrapped in a towel, Rick stepped out of his bathroom into his bedroom to find Gashkouri sitting primly on the edge of his unmade bed. He stopped, startled.

"Oh. Hey, uh, sorry, I need to dress."

"Go ahead," she smiled. "I'll just wait here. I promise not to stare."

Rick's stomach tied into a knot.

He swallowed a suddenly dry mouth and said, "Is this a crazy fan thing or a serial killer thing?"

"It's a _'my mother disappeared from an airport parking lot when I was twelve'_ thing." She held up Rick's phone. "You have a text from Ryan." She read aloud, "_'Found raleigh bike its everywhere. Check email for map. Where you wanna start?'_"

Rick's brows knit. "How did you get into my phone?"

"Hello? Irish Intelligence?"

"Oh. Yeah." He noticed her gun, sitting on his bed next to her hip. "Were you planning to use that?"

"On you? No. But." She tilted her head toward his suitcase. "I'd be in a better mood if we could get moving."

"Where to?"

"You tell me," she said. "But we should go before Matt gets back with the dog. That could muck things up."

"Has it occurred to you they might actually help?"

"I was told to bring you alone," she said. "But I just don't know where."

Rick grabbed his clothes and ducked back into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, took his anti-toxin medication (he always kept a spare does in his wallet) and made sure the taser in his cast was still charged. She didn't know about that, and he wasn't entirely sure this would turn into a violent confrontation anyway.

When she knocked on his bathroom door, the sound was heavy, metallic, and he knew it was the muzzle of her gun. "Quit stalling, or someone will be hurt, and it won't be me or you."

He stepped back out. He'd taken as long as he reasonably could. "Shoes and socks," he said. He sat and put them on while he talked. He kept his tone pleasantly conversational. "So. Did you poison Mo?"

"God no. That was a feckin' miracle!" she rolled her eyes ruefully. "Gives me hope."

"Were you working with John Halloran all along?"

"No!" she showed him the map, dotted with little flags in red, yellow, blue, and purple. Ryan had set up some kind of arcane coding system which he had intended to explain over the phone.

Rick said, "I don't know what the flags mean. I should call Ryan."

She seemed genuinely regretful. "Sorry, Castle. I can't take the chance you'd blow the whistle." She went to the hall door. "Let's go."

He indicated the plastic bins. There were all kinds of electronica in there, and tools for derring-do, thrilling heroics and burglary, along with bags of dog kibble and treats, and some protein bars. "I'm supposed to wear a wire."

"Well, plans change," she said. "You'll have to fight crime the old fashioned way."

"With a deerstalker hat and a magnifying glass?"

"Sorry, I left them at home."

He stopped and grabbed the Aran Islands sweater and tweed newsboy cap he'd had the concierge hunt down for him the night before. Gashkouri was wearing civvies from the same source; she looked like a tourist, wearing a navy jacket, a red wool scarf, black jeans, and a battered green canvas fanny pack that jutted out awkwardly on her hip. She'd pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, and she looked gorgeous and sweet as pie. Castle was really, really glad she had put the moves on Esposito instead of him. He also had the feeling that she was as well versed in combat as Beckett – and as wounded. He had no desire to harm her, and wouldn't unless his life depended on it. Which it might yet.

"So the deal is if you deliver me, you get your mother back?"

They were in the elevator, heading to the first floor. Her voice was flat. "I don't think I'll get anything back except the location of her body, if I'm lucky."

"And that's enough for you to ruin your life over?"

"My life? No. That happened years ago. This will just ruin my career." She shrugged. "Worth it."

"Really." He looked at her face closely. She seemed calm, almost cheerful, but her eyes looked miserable. "What color are the prison jumpsuits in Ireland?"

She rolled her eyes. "I might get lucky. Mitigating circumstances. And also, _you're_ not here, remember? Remember how nobody wants an international incident?"

"My wife and the records in my bank account will say otherwise, if necessary." He started to the hotel lobby.

She grabbed his arm and steered him. "No. Back way. Parking garage."

"There are cameras all over this hotel."

"I was told the cameras were disabled last night, and this is the route I'm to take." They went down a long hallway, past the kitchen.

Castle sniffed with longing. "Could we get some coffee?" Pumped on adrenaline, right now he didn't really need any, but he sure wished Beckett was around to kick this charming woman's traitorous ass. And maybe if they encountered someone in the kitchen... but she had her gun, and she jabbed him right in his itty-bitty love handle.

He continued further, past the laundry room. Gashkouri still had Rick's phone. She tossed it into a full bucket of wet, stained towels in bleach, before he could stop her.

"What the hell?"

"If you need the map, I have it loaded on mine." She kept walking.

"Who told you the cameras were disabled?"

"My brother. He got a call a couple of days ago."

"Why your brother?"

"Because he's just a dumb fook and there was no way he'd even think to trace it, let alone have the facilities to do so." They came out to a loading dock behind the hotel, where a white panel van waited, its engine switched off. The van had a fading picture of Ganesh the elephant-headed god on the side, and the logo,

"_**Elephant Speedy Van!**_

_**Moving and Hauling**_

_**Removing Your Obstacles**_

_**Since 1997."**_

Agent Gashkouri opened the door, and Castle was blasted with a wall of screaming death-metal music, incense, and tobacco smoke. He sneezed violently, and held out a hand to pause, then sneezed again. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose, then trumpeted a third time, the sound echoing around the parking garage. (Beckett would have found this suspicious, since Castle's usual sneeze was a repressed little squeak reminiscent of a baby panda: _"Quiet on the set!"_ had been drummed into him from an early age).

In the van's driver seat, a Pakistani man of perhaps 35 tamped out a cigarette and smiled apologetically at Castle, then glanced past to his younger sister. Castle sneezed one more time, hawked and spat into the kerchief as well. "Sorry," he gasped a little. "That incense..." Castle felt her shove, and he climbed up awkwardly onto the bench seat. The handkerchief, on the other hand, did not go back into his pocket. He'd spent enough time hanging around in magic shops to learn a few tricks; he balled the hankie into his fist and lobbed it down onto the asphalt, between the front and back wheel of the van.

"Seat belt," said the young man. Castle crammed himself into the middle.

"Rick Castle." He offered his hand.

"Zameer Gashkouri. You can call me Sam."

"Sam it is."

Sam was nearly as tall as Castle and all stringy muscle, his black hair thinning a bit on top and cropped close. He had his lovely sister's eyes and generous smile, although his nose went on for days. Ameena climbed in next to Castle and her brother started the van. It pulled out and away from the hotel at a leisurely – inconspicuous – pace.

The tires were fairly new, the treads deep, the ground wet from mist. The handkerchief stuck to the van's back passenger-side tire for ten or twelve revolutions, then came loose and ricocheted up inside the fender, where it clung muddily for the next fifty meters or so. It flopped back down onto the tire, irreparably ripped and soiled, to the ground in the vehicle's wake as it left the parking lot. It lay there, waiting for Betsy, hoping that no neat-freak hotel employee was out doing pre-dawn landscape tidying.

Like his handkerchief, Castle was torn. He could probably tase Ameena and take Sam, but he was also mightily curious as to how this had all come about.

She said, "Where to?"

Castle shrugged. "Molly Malone statue."

Sam turned onto the airport access road. "Seriously, dude?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

"Are you a detective or a tourist?"

Rick shook his head. "Writer."

Sammy sighed and glared over at his sister. "For this I got up at 4 a.m.?"

Rick looked around the van's cabin. It was draped with a dusty garland of faded marigolds tied to pink string, dangling from the rear-view mirror, and a bobblehead Ganesh nodded genially on the dashboard. He reached up and touched one of the flowers, its petals papery under his fingers. "I went to an Indian wedding once. Lasted two days."

Ameena snorted. "Slackers."

Sam said, "We're Pakistani."

"No," said Ameena. "We're Irish."

"_You're_ Irish, 'Meena. I still remember home."

"This _is_ home."

Rick shrugged. "I hope you won't wind up getting deported for this."

Sam slammed the brakes on. "'Meena, you didn't tell me this was illegal." Behind them, a car nearly collided, honked, and passed, flashing its lights.

"You want me to drive, _Zameer_?" Her voice was dangerous.

"Fook, no, girlie. This is _my_ truck."

"Then _drive_ it, Dickface. Side roads. Fewer cameras."

Sam turned from the airport complex onto the main road, heading toward the heart of Dublin. The landscape was oddly anonymous in the cold mist, the lights like smears of oil paint on a dark canvas. Rick himself was too warm, wearing his ridiculous Aran sweater, jammed between the two siblings. Rick glanced over at Sam. "So you got a call."

"Yeah. And notes. We've gotten a few over the years."

"Years?"

"Yeah. A woman. Claims she knows what happened to our mam."

"What did happen to your … your mother?"

They spoke at the same time, angry with one another, their answers quite different:

Zameer said "She ran off."

Ameena said, "She was abducted. Maybe murdered." Hers took longer to say, her voice trailing off bitterly.

Normally Rick loved a mystery, but he found himself not wanting to be in the middle of this one. The truck continued south, through areas of industrial park and mixed use, a few decrepit and derelict buildings, and some residential areas. Quite a mix.

"Wow," Rick said sincerely. "I'm so sorry."

"Are you?" said Ameena. She glanced at him uncertainly.

"What is this about? How long has she been missing?"

"A lot of women have gone missing. Since your career started, women have gone missing from the Dublin airport. Their bodies found raped, dumped in bogs and storm drains." She paused, looking around. "I said side roads, Sam. Go to the R108."

Rick held onto something she'd said. "My career?"

Zameer turned the van off the main route.

"Almost every single one of these murders has happened when you were in Ireland on a book tour."

Rick pressed his hands to his eyes. "_Almost?_" He felt sick and exhausted. "And your mother went missing while I was in town."

Zameer said, "Ammi emptied out our bank account and flew back to London." Ameena tried to interrupt, but he talked right over her. "She used her own passport. She went on to Paris from there, and then she went home. 'Meena just can't accept it."

"She would _never_ have left us!" Ameena gritted. She pointed left. "Go right. No, I mean left. _Left_." She glanced at Castle apologetically. "I'm a little dyslexic. I know where I mean to go, my mouth just doesn't always follow along."

Zameer turned the truck, and it wound along the north bank of the well-tamed River Liffey, with the city lights shining on its water and retaining walls. The river resembled more a man-made canal at this stretch, going through the heart of the city.

Rick stared at her stricken face. "How long since your mother disappeared?"

Ameena shrugged bitterly. "You should know. You took her when I was twelve."

"Ameena. I've never taken anyone anywhere. Not like that." That wasn't strictly true... he had taken Kate nearly to Canada before she insisted on turning around. But it was definitely with her permission.

"Ammi sat next to you, on a flight back to London. And took the same flight as you to Paris. That's as far as the trail goes."

"You were twelve? Pardon my asking..."

"It's the whole reason I went into law enforcement. The airport police were stupid slackers. The local police didn't want to touch it because it might be an international issue." She made quote fingers. "Or a 'cultural misunderstanding'."

"So how long has it been?"

"I'm thirty-two now."

"Twenty years... jeez." He sighed. Johanna Beckett's trail had been cold enough.

•

**4:40 a.m., Hallton Hotel, Dublin Airport, Presidential Suite**  
Speaking of trails... Matt was halfway through his breakfast and tried to power up his phone when he realized the battery had been removed.

He took Betsy back up to the Presidential Suite to find it unoccupied.

He called the front desk. Nobody had seen our man Castle, not since the concierge came up and returned back down with Esposito.

Matt looked down at Betsy, who knew something was up. She did the dance-wiggle of, _"Is it time to go find someone?"_ and Matt crouched next to her, stroking her ears. "Hey, Betsy. Where's Rick?"

"_Easy peasy,"_ she thought, and she was off like a rocket, down the hall, into the elevator, (elevators were strange, scary magical rooms to her) (_five people had had sex in this one, just in the past week alone) (yes. Five.)_ and then off, oddly, past the laundry room and kitchen, out the back way to the loading dock. She hopped down onto the pavement, her nose burning its way through all the other possible scents. A few feet out of the parking garage, she pounced on Rick's discarded and truly revolting hanky, and bounced around, baying triumphantly. But of course that wasn't Rick, it was just his purposely-left trail. She hauled along down the parking lot, completely confident of the scent he'd left stuck to the rear passenger wheel of the van.

She was so proud of her lovely Pillow Case Rick. He was a very, very good boy. She bayed again, ready to go, and finally a hotel security guard shuffled out from the lobby. Matt said, "Sorry about the baying... I think one of your guests has been kidnapped." He spoke while the dog hauled him bodily down the road. The security guard whipped out his radio. Matt said, "I'm not a police officer, but I, uh..." he sighed. "Look, you need to contact Katherine Beckett at the Huntsman's Arms Hotel. And agent Rourke of Irish Intelligence. They'll know what to do. Look, I gotta go."

The guard was not armed but was well-fed, and not paid enough to go in pursuit of athletic men with large dogs heading off corporate property. He shrugged. "All right then, you just... go on with you, we'll call the Gardai."

Matt waved and nodded, already another twenty meters down the main road. "Thanks, it's been fun."

The guard waved him off, mumbling, "Feckin' Americans and their feckin' dogs." He made a leisurely call to the Gardai about some daft bugger walking his dog on the airport access road. He then called the Huntsman Motor Inn and asked for a Kathleen Bennett, but they had nobody by that name staying there. And thus his responsibility discharged, he went back to the security office and put his sore feet up on the desk, returning to his well-earned slumber.

**4:45 a.m., Dublin, Ireland, Route 132, Southbound**  
Zameer and Ameena Gashkouri were recounting the mysterious missives and hints they had received over the years since their mother's disappearance. Ameena said, "I got Frozen Heat in the mail when it came out, and the woman had left a note in the front jacket: _'Richard Castle knows who killed Nicky Heat's mother. He knows what happened yours'_. I know it wasn't from you, because they misspelled Nikki's name."

"Did it say 'what happened' or 'what happened to'?"

"'What happened.'"

"That's someone who writes with an accent," he said. "Not an American colloquialism."

Her eyes brightened. "Accent?"

He frowned a little. "I've heard it. Need to think where."

"So I started reading your books. I've read most of them." She sighed.

Sam said, "'Meena used to sit in the back of my truck and read. If I did that I'd get carsick as fook-all."

"So would I," said Rick. He watched her face carefully. "You don't think I did it."

She shook her head. "Not any more." And then her brown eyes bored into his, doubt warring with faith in both of their hearts. "But I could be wrong."

"Before Frozen Heat showed up... you never took the notes to the police?"

"Were they going to pay attention to someone like me?"

Rick shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe they have a Kate Beckett you don't know about."

"That would be me," she said quietly. "I was already a cop when Frozen Heat appeared on my doorstep, but before that, you weren't even on my radar. The little notes could have been someone's idea of a prank. Or racist harrassment."

"Ah. That makes sense," he said. He paused a moment, letting the ideas drift around in his mind. What was the story? Who was the protagonist? What was their task? Was it him? Was it Michael, or was it Rose, or was it Ameena Gashkouri? "Why are we here? Why didn't you tell Rourke? Or your whole team?"

"Because I'm not entirely sure that Rourke isn't in on it!"

Castle nodded. "Seems clear now that Halloran was."

"June 30 I got a note and a burner phone in my mailbox: 'Get Richard Castle to Dublin alone and wait for instructions.' "

"You dusted them for prints?"

"They're not in our system, but what do you want to bet they're yours?"

Rick nodded. "Entirely possible. I was framed for a murder a while ago." He shuddered, remembering that poor woman's body, bound to the ceiling, and his fingerprints all over her apartment. A wave of rage swept over him, and if he could, he would have killed 3XK twice over. At Gashkouri's look of alarm, he ran his fingers over his face, hard, wishing he could just squeegee the angst away. All he could do was keep breathing, keep thinking, keep the horror at bay. He heard Beckett's voice in his mind, Montgomery's, even Gates'. "Let's follow the evidence, and just try to work together. Is your department behind you?"

"Not really. Rourke has known about my little crusade for a while and didn't give a rat's choti se luli about it. He came around when he saw the Commander was with you... not for your own sake, but because he's been trying to crack a corporate spy ring."

"_The Commander_?"

Gashkouri huffed. "Hello? Your aul Da?"

"Oh." Rick rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, I'm tired... so, after all these little communications - you never considered getting a lock for your mailbox? Or putting a camera on it?"

"Fuck no!" her eyes flashed. "I wanted to know. I left notes for whoever it was, but the mailman gave me hell about it. They must have watched me – always knew when I would be gone. My neighbors only said it was someone tall."

"And they never communicated electronically."

"Nah. Too easy to trace, even for us backwards Irish," she grinned ruefully. "This crap burner phone is as high-tech as they've gotten with me."

"Why do they want me alone?"

She gave him a rueful little smile. "Have you had a good look at your team, Mr. Castle?"

He returned her smile. "Badasses, am I right?" He reached out and touched the Ganesh bobblehead again. It agreed with him. "But it always seems that in the stories, the protagonist has to go it alone in the end."

She nodded then looked ahead miserably. "I'm getting you where you need to go, but I don't know where. And you'll have no backup but me, and all I want is to find out what happened to her." She hesitated, then spoke through a set jaw. "I will do anything I have to."

Rick grimaced. "You have a lot in common with Kate. I wish you'd told us about this sooner."

Sam said, "Meanwhile I'm a fuckin' accessory to kidnapping. Look, 'Meena, Ammi ran away, and someone's playin' you for an eejit." He downshifted and turned right, heading south on a bridge across the River.

He turned to Sam. "What makes you so sure she ran away?"

"Ah, you know. She and Da, they fought all the time." He glanced at Castle. "Arranged marriage."

"But she loved us, Sam. She loved Da, too. She wouldn't leave us. Not like that."

Her brother scowled ahead at the road. "Maybe she just couldn't handle it anymore. Maybe she figured you were old enough to take care of yourself. And she hated the weather."

Rick felt an odd, selfish pang: he'd never had siblings to fight with. They were in pain, but he found it both uncomfortable and endearing. He mused, "It would take a lot more than weather to keep me away from my family."

Gashkouri breathed, "Yeh."

Once across the river and closer to the heart of downtown, Rick spied a coffee house chain. "Ooh, The Tentacled Mermaid. I really could use some coffee. Preferred beverage of crime fighters everywhere."

"We're almost at the statue," said Sam. "I'll look for parking." He touched the elephant bobblehead, and it waggled. "Do your magic."

There were a few trucks about, but this early in the morning in a downtown shopping district, parking wasn't much of a problem.

**4:55 a.m, Grafton Street at St. Stephens Green, Dublin**  
"There she is," said Ameena. She pointed, and Rick caught a bare glimpse of the Molly Malone statue in the mist.

For some reason his heart jumped into his throat. Maybe someone was waiting for him there. "I wonder if there's a clue of where to go next?" They got out of the van, and he found himself shivering as they walked to the statue, and then around it. Molly herself was a lovely nut-brown bronze, her smooth skin and textured clothing beaded by mist. It was strange that a statue would just be set there on a little plinth in the sidewalk, but there she was, just about life size, with her little wheelbarrow with the three baskets of shellfish. Rick smiled at his own memory: when he had climbed up on the statue and horsed around with Michael, grabbing at the spectacular bronze tits; then later on retching all over her skirt and being hauled away by a cop. There was a little public notice sign up: Molly was to be relocated on July 18. He realized he was just in time. But not, because Tiffany was still out there somewhere. Molly's bronze fingers were ghost-cold in his.

"Hey, Molly," he said. Molly looked off to her right, staring through him into the distance, her face sad in the misty pre-dawn streetlight.

The statue, of course, recognized him. If someone gropes your tits then barfs on you a few hours later, you tend to remember, even if it's decades later. But of course she could do nothing, and at least he didn't look inclined to spray paint anything on her, or stick chewing gum on her nose, and thank GOD he wasn't a pigeon.

Rick had no inclination whatsoever to feel her up, just tucked his cold hands into his pockets. He stepped down off the plinth and turned to Gashkouri. "Can I spring for some coffee or tea or something? I'm starving."

Sam looked at Ameena, who shrugged and nodded. Rick pulled out his wallet and handed Sam a couple of 20-Euro notes. "Maybe they'll have a sandwich or something. Get one for yourself."

Sam said, "Thanks. 'Meena?"

She rolled her eyes. "You men just... _God_, you can eat. All right, tea and a yoghurt. Strawberry if they have it."

Rick sat down on Molly's marble plinth, facing away from the street side toward the St. Stephens Green wall across the sidewalk. He leaned back against her full bronze skirt, which had not been vomited upon in the discernible past. It was none too comfortable, but he hoped Betsy might be able to pick up his scent if anyone thought to bring her here. He closed his eyes, trying to remember their route. They had walked north, with the wall and the great arch on their right. Several blocks to the river, and then they had turned, what... right?

Gashkouri sat down next to him despite the cold and damp. "So, what's the plan?"

Rick shook his head. "Beckett texted that there are dozens of photos of buildings with the same bike locked up outside, so 3XK's yanking our chain with the Raleigh lead. I'll retrace my steps as well as I can. But it's been decades, and I was higher than a kite."

Her face contorted, and her voice was harsh with disappointment. _"That's it?"_ She buried her forehead in her hands. "Oh, God. And here I thought you were some kind o' feckin' genius."

Rick said, "That's debatable."

"No, I think we can jump straight to the conclusion you're a feckin' eejit." She looked through the mist toward the Mermaid coffee house. "_I'm_ a feckin' _ullu ki patthi_."

He understood her meaning, if not the actual words (daughter of an owl). "No, you're just going with the evidence that's presented to you. You've put it together in an intuitive leap and taken action. That's the sign of a good cop. A dedicated cop."

"Who just resorted to kidnapping."

"I'd be willing to pretend this never happened. No charges if you'll just get me back in touch with my team, and stay out of my way."

"I have to go with you, and it has to be just us," she said softly. There were tears hiding at the back of her voice. "They said they'd answer all my questions if I just gave them what they want - you."

"And you brought your brother into it?"

"He needs to know. He just won't admit it."

"How about your dad?"

"He – he doesn't care any more. He thinks everything they had was a lie."

"And you're sure it wasn't?"

"She was shy. Hated going off on her own at all. She hated crowds, hated working at the airport. Before she got that job, she was home with Sam and me. She would cook with me, talk about how _'when your Da gets home, he'll love this dish, just like my aul' Ammi used to make, Da loves surprises.' "_

Castle smiled, encouraging her. "What was her name?"

"Mukhtar." Ameena went on, spilling out a eulogy she had never gotten the chance to deliver. "She was quiet, so gentle. But when she played with me, or when my Da came home, her face would light up, she would laugh, would want to hear the funny stories he told. They left Pakistan because they wanted more freedom. They wanted us to get better educations, so she took a job cleaning at the airport, and it was so hard. She was usually gone into the evening. Came home so tired."

Rick remained silent, just watching as the mist made her hair frizz softly, the streetlight shining on it and on the tears on her cheeks. "She always had her passport with her for I.D. One night she just didn't come home. She had bought a ticket to London, emptied out the family's bank accounts, and just... disappeared off the face of the earth. I was surprised, all right. But Da never thought he really deserved her. I think he was surprised she loved him. She was so beautiful."

Rick produced a handkerchief. Ameena wiped her eyes. "Thank you. I didn't mean..."

"It's good to learn about her. It helps." He paused. "Did the flight attendants remember her?"

"Just another little brown woman in a headscarf."

Rick tilted his head. "You're not Muslim, are you?"

"Exactly. We're secular Hindu, so she didn't wear a hijab or anything remotely like it. But nobody noticed that until I looked at the files, once I turned eighteen. By then it was a cold case."

"And she sat next to me?"

"Two seats over. In coach class. You were in E17, she was in F."

"Coach. So before I really made it big. So to speak."

"Yes. But nobody ever noticed. Nobody contacted you. Because why should a famous author..." her voice tripped. "Why would anyone care?"

"What about the other women?"

"Some were found, some weren't. There wasn't much of a pattern. Just you being at the same airport at the same time. Sometimes under Richard Rodgers, other times under Richard Castle. Of course I didn't even think to look for a correlation until someone sent me the Frozen Heat book."

"My passport was stolen when I visited Ireland on a movie shoot. I was 19."

"Jaysus. Are you havin' me on?"

"Nope. I guess they were using it – or a bootleg copy of of it – all along." He sighed heavily and mussed his hair. "How many more deaths are linked to my name?"

"Here comes Sam," she observed. They both rose to their feet.

"I forgot to ask him for cream in my coffee."

"Crap o' the morning to ya," she said wryly. "Look, I really am sorry about all this. I wish..."

"It's all right." Appearing almost absent-minded, Rick put his right hand on Ameena's shoulder, and the barbs from the Special Secret Agent Taser Cast Cartridge bit her skin, shocking her hard. She fell to the ground, convulsing mildly, groaning, unable to control her movements or speak yet. He yanked his sweater off and bundled it under her head to pillow it, murmuring, "Sorry."

Sam realized what was happening and picked up speed. Rick snatched Gashkouri's gun from her holster, then fished her phone out of her pocket, just as her brother came running up, swearing, still clutching a tray of drinks, with the bag of food under his arm.

Rick pocketed her phone, then waved the gun in his left hand. "Keys first. Then coffee." The safety was on, but Sam didn't know that. He handed over the keys first; Rick hung the keyring over his right index.

"What did you do to her, _tu sala ghasti ka bacha?"_

Rick was glad he was the one holding the gun. Sam's easygoing nature had disappeared.

"I tazed her. She'll be fine in a minute. Take care of her, keep her warm, keep her out of trouble." He gestured, and Sam handed him the hot coffee, then hunkered down by his sister, who lay gasping on the damp pavement, her head pillowed with Rick's sweater.

Comprehension dawning, he reached into the bag and handed Rick a breakfast sandwich. "Feck, man, thanks. She's unstoppable sometimes. Worries the shite outta me."

"Tell me about it," Rick replied. He tried to juggle the sandwich, drink, and gun, and sighed, cursing at his cast. "How do people do this?"

"Eh, don' worry, I won't be after ya," said Sam.

"Thanks." Rick stuck the gun in his waistband (his mother's voice in his head: "_You'll shoot your ass off, Richard.") _He tucked the sandwich under his arm and carried his coffee to the van. "Call the gardai," Rick said. "I'll drop the van a few blocks north. Have them put out a BOLO for me."

"Like one of those little string ties?"

"Be-On-The-Lookout," wheezed Ameena.

"Oh. Yeh," said Sam. He waved his half-eaten sandwich. "Drive safe! I let the insurance lapse a little bit, I think."

Rick turned to Gashkouri, who had rolled onto her side and was trying to catch her breath. Her body ached all over, and she tried to rise to her hands and knees. He said, "I need the password to your phone."

"_CHAPpal marna_," she panted.

Rick glanced at Zameer, who shook his head, declining to translate. "That was more of a threat than a password."

Rick looked down at his cast, checked to see if his taser had charged back up, and said very gently, "I still have your gun. I need to use your phone, and I'll get it back to you if I can. I don't want anyone to get hurt..."

"47," she gritted.

"That's it?" His face was stern, and he reached back for the butt of the gun.

"1147. My father's after-shave." All the fight seemed to have gone out of her. Also Sam looked ready to hold her down.

"Got it. Uh, sorry about all this." Castle ran to the van and started it up. Before he pulled out, he yanked the head off the Ganesh bobble-head and examined the inside. He found a tiny lens and smiled at it. "I don't know who's watching this, but the show's over."

He tossed the lens out the window and into the street. It was Cam_293. (He was immediately hit by guilt over littering, but he'd get over it.) As the camera arced down to the ground, it caught a blurred image of the Molly Malone statue, with Zameer Gashkouri helping his sister up off the pavement. Then the camera bounced again, the lens cracked, and its transmission turned to snow.

**July 4, 4:53 a.m., Huntsman's Arms Hotel**  
Ryan, of course, missed the whole thing. He was currently watching Cam_301, looking at Agent Rourke, who was standing in a bare room with stained carpeting that might have been beige once, or maybe pale green. Rourke was wearing a dust mask and directing a CSU team. Ryan phoned Rourke and watched him take his phone out.

"Rourke here."

Ryan said, "Are you by any chance in Halloran's apartment?"

"Yeh. The address on his ID was four bedsitters back, and it's been a merry chase finding this one. Half the landlords in Tallacht want to kill me. It's been cleaned out and wiped for prints. Only thing left is the ring inside the toilet bowl. "

"You mean a wedding ring?"

"No, just crap. You know. Scale. But the water's up to the line, so it's been flushed within the last day or so. The landlady says he moved out last night. "

"Ugh. Thanks for sharing. Looks like they've been watching Halloran. I can see you in his apartment right now."

Rourke looked around. Ryan guided him to the lens, which was hidden in the frame of the ceiling light fixture. Rourke called a technician to get a stepladder and remove the globe.

Ryan said, "So there's no evidence of Halloran's activities?"

"Not much," said Rourke. "Found a pen in the kitchen drawer."

"A pen?" Ryan's voice was tight. "Twist the barrel open. Anything inside?"

Rourke said, "A mini flash drive."

"Does the pen have a logo on it?"

Rourke said, "Yeh. _Elephant Speedy Van, Hauling and Delivery, Dublin 2. All Your Obstacles Removed_."

•

End Chapter 47. 48 is almost done. Stay tuned!

* * *

*If you're not a Firesign Theater fan, you should be. ;-) I'm sure Rick introduced Kate to it, and they snuggle on the couch drinking wine and giggling, listening to the adventures of Hemlock Stones and Porgy Tirebiter)

** Jon Carroll wrote a damn funny column about Yeats' Lake of Innisfree and trying to find the Bee-Loud Glade. You can find it online at sfgate dot com


	48. Chapter 48

_Get out of the way, no time to begin_  
_ This isn't the time, so nothing was done_  
_ Not talking about, not many at all_  
_ I'm turning around, no trouble at all_

_You notice there's nothing around you, around you_  
_ I'm walking a line, divide and dissolve_

_Never get to say much, never get to talk_  
_ Tell us a little bit, but not too much_  
_ Right about then, is where she give up_  
_ She has closed her eyes, she has give up hope_

_I'm walking a line, I hate to be dreaming in motion_  
_ I'm walking a line, just barely enough to be living_

**_Houses in Motion - The Talking Heads_**

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 48 - Murphy's Law***

**4:45 a.m., St. Philomena's Trauma Center**

An ambulance roared up to the emergency entrance, disgorging Mohammed Atta (lying dazed on a gurney) and Javier Esposito (half-dead-tired on his feet). The EMT wheeled Mo into the waiting room, and the receiving nurse said, "Are you family?"

Esposito said, "No, he's a friend. We're tourists. American. His name's Mohammed Atta. Not sure how that's spelled."

The nurse was a kind-enough woman of about 45, her reddish-blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun. "We'll need contact information for his next of kin, and the international insurance coverage can be..." she shook her head. She didn't want to say "hell itself" but clearly she wasn't looking forward to the paperwork. Jackson Hunt had all the emergency and next-of-kin information stored on his laptop. They'd all meant to back this information amongst themselves, but the little matter of Beckett's kidnapping had thrown them all for a loop. Esposito fished around in his pockets for his own phone. The phone felt oddly light, and when he tried to power it up, nothing happened. He shook it, listening for a rattle, then felt like an idiot and opened up the back. The battery was gone.

He asked the EMT for Mo's personal effects, which they'd taken out of his pockets and bagged. Mo's phone battery had been removed, too. He swore in elaborate Spanish under his breath and shrugged helplessly. The EMT rolled Mo away, and Javi handed Mo's things to the nurse. "Ma'am, does Ireland have phone books?"

She rolled her eyes. _Jeezus_. Tourists. "Yes, Mr. Einstein. Over there." Pointing not with the tip of her finger but the first knuckle (because it's rude to point) she indicated a pay phone booth in the lobby.

"It's Esposito."

"Whatever. Let's get your man tucked in, we'll work out the details once you've made your phone call."

Esposito smiled gratefully. "This is definitely not an American hospital."

She winked. "I trust you'll remember me in your prayers."

In the end Espo had to get an operator to help him find the Huntsman's Arms Hotel.

* * *

**and 4:45 a.m. July 4th, Dublin Airport**

At the airport property's edge, Betsy stopped a moment and grew very quiet, staring down into a drainage ditch that came out from the tarmac and ran alongside the road. Her tail drooped. Mo would have known her tell - that she'd found a body, she could smell it in the mud - but Mo was at the hospital on drip antihistamines, recovering from his stomach pump. Matt said uneasily, "Betsy? Where's Rick?"

She turned to him with a sigh. The things these monkeys-in-shoes didn't know sometimes astounded her. He reached into her pannier and pulled out a treat. She took it gratefully enough; hadn't eaten her whole breakfast and she was beginning to feel it.

"Where's Rick? Find Rick."

"Fnfff." She tugged him back to the road, nearly into the path of an oncoming car. He'd forgotten she was more a smell-oriented dog than sight.

"Damn," he murmured. "Come on, stay over here. I know you can smell him. You just don't have to have your face in it all the time." So he hoped. She got the drift, hauling him along down the road at a steady jog.

* * *

•

**July 4, 5:10 a.m., R138 Northbound**

Rick drove north a few blocks, pulled the van over into Tara Street. He smiled to himself: he remembered it now, Rosie bitching about Rick and Declan's mutual love of movies, how they'd joked about Gone with the Wind of all things (there was a farting contest at the corner of Tara and Poolbeg). "Tara," he breathed, in a reasonably awful Georgia accent. He pulled into the lot and parked near the DART subway station.

Not wanting to drive an unfamiliar road on the wrong side with a bright map shining in his hands, he pulled out Gashkouri's smartphone and typed in "1147". She'd apparently lied, and it remained stubbornly locked. "Hell with this." Hoping he might be able to figure it out later, he went to the back of the van, which was empty but for a tool box. Using some duct tape, he strapped the phone to the front of his right shin under his pants, where it lay fairly flush. Additionally he grabbed a box knife, a permanent pen and a few sticky labels. He stuffed them in his pocket, chugged down the last of his coffee, and took off on foot. He found a news stand just opening up by the station and bought a laminated plastic map of Dublin, scanning the area. Talbot Bridge. He was struck with a memory of himself and Declan howling at the setting moon from a bridge. Joking about Larry Talbot from the Wolf Man movies. He took a label, tagged it

_**"RC + KB 7/4/14**_

_**^"**_

and slapped it onto the railing, with an arrow pointing in the direction he intended her to follow. If she followed. If she even saw it.

He found the bridge and walked over it, now back on the north side of the Liffey again.

Near a bus stop, he found a pay phone and called Alexis and his mother; both calls went to voicemail. "Hi. It's July Fourth where I am. I just want to tell you... I hope I'll get to see you again. Really soon. If anything happens to me, I've made arrangements with Jim Beckett and my own lawyer to take care of you. Stay safe, and happy Independence Day. I love you."

His message on Kate's voicemail was a bit more elaborate: "Good morning, Kate. I only have three numbers memorized? Such an idiot. Look, don't trust Gashkouri, she's... not crooked, but has her own agenda. Her mom's missing. I'm on my own. Mo is okay but he's at the hospital with an allergy attack. Espo's with him and I hope to God he has the sense to contact Ryan. Matt has Betsy. Heard anything from Rourke?" He remembered what Gashkouri had said... that she wondered if Rourke might be in on it. _Bloody hell_. "Don't trust Rourke either. We've only known these people for a day. I was an idiot."

The pay phone chimed. _"Please insert..."_

Rick inserted his last coin and said hurriedly, "I'm north of the Liffey on foot. I love you. Get here as soon as you can. I'll try to call again but I'll need to get change. Love you. Be safe." He slapped a tag label on the pay phone booth, too.

_**"RC + KB 7/4/14**_

_**^"**_

Landmark by landmark, road by road, he retraced his steps, constantly aware that he was running out of time, running out of options, running out of hope. Also running out of tag labels.

He thought of one of Stephen King's novels, the Gunslinger, which had been sparked by Robert Browning's poem. He murmured the opening line to himself:

"_Childe Rowland to the Dark Tower Came."_

He'd always wondered why it was "Childe Rowland" not "Knight Rowland". Maybe Rowland was a manchild who had delayed growing up until he was ankle-deep in a bad situation. He sure as hell hoped he was in a Richard Castle novel rather than a Stephen King novel. Or worse, a Browning poem. He crossed over some railroad tracks. Had he walked on the rails with Declan and Rosie? Yes. Had they followed them a little ways? Yes. He retraced their long-ago steps for a few hundred feet, but then realized it was fruitless. "And then we went through a hole in a fence." The fences were gone. Sound walls had been put up. So his route going there had been permanently changed. He clenched his fists and kicked at some gravel. "_Fucking urban renewal_."

Stepping off the tracks and standing off to the side (because being run over by a train might just put a little damper in one's day) he closed his eyes. "What would Betsy smell?" His sensitive-for-a-human-but-paltry-for-a-dog nose collected the sharp scent of creosote from the tracks, and the tang of sea air. Dublin smelled better since he'd been there last; there had been a lot of air pollution mitigation, and a limit on the use of diesel.

He gave up on the tracks and returned to the road, taking time to look at the map rather than waste time wandering around. Declan had led them through the fence... maybe at the end of this street. Maybe that one. Or that. The street had been narrow... "Okay. All the goddamn streets are narrow."

He turned north onto the main road again, and walked a few more blocks. Nothing felt familiar. "Huh." There had been a lot of urban renewal along this stretch.

Behind him, a railway signal beeped its warning, and the gates came down. The 5:30 westbound train passed. Castle turned back to look at it and laughed.

He hadn't _returned _to Molly Malone through the fence. He had taken the streets, following the occasional arrow toward Downtown Dublin, and suddenly everything seemed a little more familiar. He walked to the next block, turned backwards, and his memory was confirmed.

* * *

•

**5:02 a.m. Huntsman's Arms Hotel**

There was a wait while the night operator... okay, The Huntsman's Arms really didn't have a night operator. They had the owner's red-haired teenage niece, who had reminded Hunt of Alexis. Let's call her Eileen because nobody ever quite caught her name. Eileen had been promised a lovely summer's "working holiday" where she'd get to meet all kinds of famous people and their horses, and instead spent most of the time changing sheets, waiting tables, washing dishes and scrubbing toilets and oh, yes, answering the ruddy telephone at _half-bloody-five in the morning._

The first and second and third time he rang, Esposito got the answering machine. He hung up and tried again, and the sleep-addled Eileen muttered, "Hello?"

"Yes, is this the Huntsman's Arms Hotel?"

"Who the feck wants to know?"

"Uh, who is this?"

"I asked you first."

"Is this the Huntsman's Arms Hotel? This is an emergency."

"It damn well better be a feckin' emergency, callin' at this hour," she sat up, rubbing her face. "What the feck do ya want?"

"Is this..."

"Yes, it's the bloody Huntsman's Arms." Her voice grew sarcastic. "And how may I have the pleasure of servicin' you on this fine summer night? Oh. No, I'm sorry. It's _morning_, isn't it?"

"The folks in the conference room tonight, Mr. Castle's party. Are any of them still down there? Or can you connect me with their rooms?"

"Is it a really bad emergency?" She'd missed out on most of the excitement around the kidnapping, since she'd been on kitchen cleanup duty.

_"Yes, it's... Is there any other kind?"_

Eileen rolled out of bed and padded down the hall from her ground floor room to the conference suite, with the portable phone at her ear. "I'll have to go to the main switch to ring their rooms. Let me just see... aww, the poor lamb's out cold."

Ryan was twice her age, but with his head down on the table, he looked like a slumbering baby.

Esposito's heart raced. "What do you mean out cold? Is he okay?"

"He's fast asleep and droolin' on the conference table."

"Well, wake him up. It's an emergency - but be careful, he's a trained..."

He heard the portable handset drop with a clatter, and then the girl squawked, and the phone went dead. He called again, but the line was busy. He tried one more time.

Ryan picked up.

"Huntsman's arms. Ryan here."

"Hey, bro, it's me. What the hell?"

"Everyone's asleep. I must've conked out." he paused. "You sure you're okay, Miss?"

Esposito heard her on the other end of the line. "Yeh. I'm goin' back to bed and I don't want to hear another word..."

"No, wait, hold up," Ryan said. "I'll make you some hot chocolate. You just sit down..." He tucked the phone under his jaw, and Esposito heard him ripping open a packet and pouring hot water from the kettle. "Hang on, Javi. Miss, are you sure you don't want to put some ice on that?"

"No, I'm just fine," she said. "Just want to go back to bed..."

"Look, I'm sorry about your eye, you startled me. But I need you to sit tight, just a moment. Okay? Javi, Beckett tried the other folder on the drive... the Tiger?"

"Yeah? Did it blow up the computer?"

"No, but it gave us a pile of intel, including some cams in some very interesting places."

"Such as?"

"Oh... let's see. Gates' house. Both locker rooms and the holding cel at the Twelfth. A dolphin cam at a marine facility. Nate Williams' kitchen table. My family room. Your sofa."

"Are you - "

"I'd know that sofa anywhere, man. The bastards tapped into our goddamn baby monitor setup. They've been watching us. Watching Sarah Grace..."

"Oh, man."

"Yeah. Jenny's gonna be just thrilled about that." Ryan poked the laptop and went to the TiffyCam. "Tiffany Ross is... yup, she's asleep. With a cat, in a pink bedroom. Somewhere."

Esposito let out a long breath. "So, she's alive then."

"For now. So why didn't you call my phone?"

"I never got the burner numbers memorized."

"Oh. Right." Ryan, of course, was the only one who had bothered. Castle hadn't taken the time to look at them; he would have been able to remember them but he hadn't programmed the numbers into his phone; Hunt had taken care of it.

"So, what's up?"

"Oh, Mo had some kind of seizure, I'm here with him at the emergency room."

Ryan's heart went cold. "You think he was poisoned?"

"Nah. He's allergic to clams or something. Who eats clams for breakfast?"

"Oh, is that the cockles-and-mussels omelet thing? They serve it to tourists. My cousin warned me about that."

"Well, he's out for the count. So I need his wife's phone number and all that."

"How's the dog?"

"She's with Castle. I'm not sure who's more freaked out about the whole thing."

"When we're done I'll check in with him. I have news about Halloran anyway."

"What's that?"

"Somebody hired a guy with a van to clean out Halloran's apartment last night. Once the van was loaded up, the driver got knocked out and thrown in the dumpster, and the perp stole the van with all Halloran's stuff in it."

"No shit. Any description on the van?"

"Yeah, the landlady said it was a white van with an elephant painted on the side. They found the van driver sleeping it off in the dumpster out back. Poor guy." Ryan hated dumpsters. "Wait, Javi, isn't my number plugged into your phone on autodial?"

"Yeah, but..." he stopped. "Oh. Shit. _Shit_."

"What."

"Mo's phone's out too. Look, hang up and try calling Castle and Ameena."

"Ameena?"

"Gashkouri."

"Ohh."

"Shut up. Or try Matt. Maybe one of them will pick up."

"Maybe?"

"Bro, I didn't put my battery in the charger last night. Someone stole it."

Ryan tried Castle, and Matt, and Gashkouri. He called the Hallton Dublin Aiport Hotel and spoke with security, who said some American tourist had taken his bloodhound for a walk a little while ago. He asked to speak with the concierge. While he was on hold, he sent Eileen up to Hunt's and Teresa's rooms to get the team moving.

He called Esposito back on the pay phone. "Hey. Castle &amp; Gashkouri have disappeared. Matt seems to have taken Rosie for a walk. You think it's time to pull the local cops in on this?"

Esposito shrugged. "My gut feeling's yes, but you'll wanna run it by Beckett. She's more tapped in to him than any of us."

* * *

**5:30 a.m., Tallacht Emergency Services**  
Agent Rourke was there when the doctors revived the man from Halloran's dumpster. He was an elderly man of middle Eastern descent, tall and lanky, his graying hair cropped close, sporting a luxuriant, still- black mustache.

Rourke looked down at the man, who wore a pair of filthy white coveralls.

"Good morning," he said. "I'm Agent Rourke. Irish intelligence."

"Did my daughter send you?" Dark eyes blinked, attempting to focus. "Did they find my glasses?"

"Your daughter?"

"Ameena Gashkouri."

"Ameena Gaskh-" Rourke stopped himself. "Sir, what were you doing in that dumpster?"

"What dumpster? I was not in a dumpster."

"Yes, you were. You were found in a rubbish bin behind John Halloran's bedsitter complex."

"Who?" Mr. Gashkouri sat up on his elbows. "Who do you say?"

"John Halloran."

"Oh, no. This ... I need to speak with my lawyer. And my daughter. She works for your agency. Is she here?"

"No, in fact, she's not answering her phone."

"Oh, dear. I knew she would get in over her silly head."

"Pardon me, Mr. Gashkouri?"

"I'm not going to say another word. Not without my lawyer present."

"And why is that?"

"Because my wife went missing sometime back, and there was hell to pay. I do not wish to be raked over the coals again. I have done nothing wrong."

"Your wife."

"Yes. Ameena's mother. She never told you? Ohdeargod. I really must stop talking."

"She..." Rourke's lips (and they were very tiny) pressed together, just a little white line in his face. "Yeah. You have the right to remain silent." He turned to the local cop next to him. "This man needs his rights read. And he needs an attorney."

* * *

•

**5:34 a.m., North Dublin**  
Spurred by certainty, Castle sped up. (Now that his ankle and knee had healed up, he could cover serious ground when he wanted to.) Occasionally he'd turn and walk backwards a few steps... "There's the pub. There's the steeple. There's the chaat house - ooh, that awning's seen better days." He remembered it brand-new, bright orange. It had faded to cream, streaked with algae and hanging on in threads. Much had changed, and it was broad daylight, and he wasn't drugged out of his mind, but he was sure.

A little voice in his head said, _"Call for backup. Go back to a pay phone. Don't go in alone." _If we're going to get technical, that voice was actually in the prefrontal cortex, the most evolved area of the human brain that processes cause/effect. We can only surmise that Castle had been knocked for a loop one too many times of late.

_"Just a little further," said Mephistopheles, who sat swinging his feet on the bridge of Castle's corpus callosum._

_"Farther," corrected Petros. "No, wait... farther is for physical distance, further is for metaphorical distance."_

_"Haha!" snickered Mephistopheles. "What if we're talking about spiritual growth? What if this is what Rick needs to do to complete his evolution?"_

_"Well," said Petros. "Oh, crap, you've got me all confused now." The angel tried to scratch his head, and suddenly mourned that he had no fingernails, because who needs fingernails in the afterlife? _

_Mephistopheles stroked his codfish, crowing, "And I just made an angel say a naughty word." _

* * *

**5:36 a.m. North Dublin, Westbound Railroad Tracks intersection, Southbound side street**

Betsy and Matt had already run nearly six kilometers south toward downtown Dublin. He was glad he'd stayed in shape, but the dog's punishing pace wearied him. He was amazed at Mo's endurance, which he had concealed under rather baggy clothes and a mellow demeanor. Mo was no slouch.

Matt was struggling to keep Betsy to the roadside while cars passed. This road, while wider than some in Ireland, was still only 2-lane in most places. They were in a commercial district, but it was still quiet, with only a few early commuters and delivery trucks passing them. At a railroad crossing, they found themselves at an overpass, its fence railings painted green. Betsy put her paws up on the railing and bayed.

"Oh, no." Matt looked over the side, but there was no squashed Rick to be seen. She couldn't possibly be smelling the railroad tracks, and how would the car get down there? It suddenly occurred to Matt that he was relying wholly on a strange dog's sense of smell. He didn't even know what kind of vehicle Rick was in, aside from the fact that it had tires.

He tugged her leash. "Come on, Betsy. Where's Rick?" He figured she probably smelled a skunk or a squirrel or whatever passes for skunks in Ireland. Badgers? Whatever. "Where's Rick?"

Here's the problem: She smelled Rick in two different places at two different times: the scent from his sinuses on the handkerchief that had passed onto the tire, heading south on the 135 side road. And she smelled the much-fresher scent from his shoe, wafting up from the track below, left behind from the 5:30 a.m. train that had passed by a few minutes before.  
•

* * *

**5:49 a.m.**  
Castle turned onto a side street of dubious character. There were a few abandoned buildings, a bit of graffiti, almost all the shops had been closed. But there were quite a few ancient Georgian row houses that had been lovingly restored, their doors painted in bright colors. Rick walked backwards a few steps, watching the roof lines. "Yes."

The road turned a corner, and seven houses down, on the left, was a nice Georgian with a wrought-iron fence in the front. To that fence was locked the remainder of an orange Raleigh bicycle. Someone had stolen the wheels, the seat, the handlebars, even the gears and pedals, but he recognized that bent right front fork...

Mephistopheles and Petros both whispered, _"Whoa."_  
•

* * *

**July 4th, 5:38 a.m., Westbound railroad tracks, North Dublin**

Betsy circled around her own nose with her ass-end acting like the needle of a compass.

"Oh, come on!" Matt cried. "You can't really want me to go down there, can you?"

"Mowf."

"Have you ever been hit by a train? It's like, it's like getting hit by a train, dog. It is not fun. And then I would have to be explaining how I got hit by a train, and how you got hit by a train. Mo would kill me. Have you seen the muscles on that man?"

Betsy sat down, looking at him as if the weight of the world were hanging off her jowls. Her eyes sagged miserably. She really knew how to work it when she had to.

Matt scratched his spiky, red-blond hair and looked up and down the overpass. "Okay," he said. "I'll try getting over that low place in the fence, and you have to come down the bank with me, and not get killed in the process. Can you handle that?"

She tilted her head, not ready to smile yet.

There was a section of painted wooden fence that connected the green overpass railing with the side gate for an old roadhouse. Matt looked around and gave it a tentative kick with his combat boot. The wood was dry-rotten and, to his relief, shattered into fragments. Tail whirling, Betsy started through, and he stopped her. "No. Wait. Stay. I don't wanna get into anything I can't... _Whaaaaaa!_"

The bank crumbled beneath him, and he fell about eight feet, scrambling all the way, face down on the steep bank side. Betsy came halfway through the hold in the fence and looked down at him with a whimper.

He put his arms out to catch her and said, "I'm okay. Can you jump? Jump, girl."  
She put her nose down and sniffed along a foot-wide, banked earth path that sloped gently down to the rails. She started east along the rail line, then stopped and looked back at Matt, grinning, her look as plain as day. _"You comin'?"_

Matt sighed. "Smartass."

•

**July 4****th****, 5:56 a.m., Murphy's house, North Dublin**

Of course there was a cam hidden in the fan-shaped transom frame above the front door, and it was aimed at the bike. Murphy was asleep on the sofa, but the motion sensor awoke him with a chime, and he shuffled over to watch Castle hunker down by the bike frame, shake his head and smirk. Murphy didn't care that the bits had been stolen off it. Those little digs just made the puzzle more challenging for the writer.

He watched Castle peering at his own initials - RAR scratched into the frame atop the crossbar... There could be no doubt: this bike had belonged to Richard Alexander Rodgers, long ago. "Michael, you are such a devious little prick." Likely wondered someone was watching the bike. But he got up and palmed his last label onto the bike's seat:

_**"RC + KB 7/4/14**_

_**HERE!  
Careful. xo"**_

He surveyed the brick, two-story, Georgian-style row house. It was the last on the end of the row, separated from the next row by a gated walkway. He remembered climbing in the basement window with Michael and Rosie. He went around to the side; the window was barred now. Past the trash cans, the spiked wrought iron gate was fairly new, and padlocked. He didn't have much in the way of burglary tools.

He sighed. Shrugging, "Well, it worked before," he went up to the front door. It was painted red. It had a beautiful brass knocker shaped like a claddagh, with the word "Failte" ("welcome" in Gaelic) embossed below. He knocked loudly, his heart thundering. He ran a hand through his hair, realizing he'd left his stupid newsboy cap back at the Molly Malone statue.

Heavy footfalls approached the door, and it opened. The old man was at least 70, tall, with still-auburn hair gone to white in some places, his broad shoulders stooped and belly round. In a baggy robe, slippers and blue foulard pajamas, he looked harmless at first glance. He croaked, "You're early, Mr. Castle."

Rick said, "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Yeh. But we have a big day." He beckoned Rick inside. "I go by Murphy."

Rick didn't offer his hand to shake, and neither did the old man. "You were the busker. Accordion, right?"

"Yeh. Surprised you remembered."

"Well, it was quite a night, being left for dead, and all."

"Nothin' personal. We don't get in Michael's way, he doesn't get in ours."

"Professional courtesy?" Rick nodded back to the frame on the fence. "Thanks for salvaging my bike."

"Ah. That was Michael. Put it in storage all these years. He does love playin' a trick. Come in, then."

"Thanks." He stepped inside. Of course it was much cleaner now; he smelled fresh paint, carpet glue... and something else, underneath it. Bodily fluids, masked with air freshener. Cats. Death. "This is better." That wasn't a lie. Before it had been absolutely stultifying.

"Yeh. Michael bought the place, had it gutted. Customized." The old man shuffled into the kitchen and poured tap water into a big tea kettle. "We get a nice break on the rent for lettin' him use the basement now and again." He put the kettle on the restored antique stove that Castle had recognized from Michael's home video. The stove ticked softly, then a flame whooshed, and Murphy adjusted it. He indicated a canister. "I'm makin' a pot of tea. Greta should be down in a bit."

"Greta?"

"My ol' lady."

"How about Tiffany?"

"She's upstairs. Won't be awake yet. She's a slugabed." Murphy paused, his back to Castle as he measured loose black tea into the strainer. "Is Michael coming?"

"All I know is, I got here first."

"What about Rosie?"

"You didn't see the news?"

Murphy turned to him, surprised. "So nobody's busted her out o' SingSing, then."

Rick froze, remembering that the truth of Rose O'Shaunessy's whereabouts had been carefully kept in the realm of rumor and speculation. Jordan Shaw and Victoria Gates had worked hard to confuse the hell out of the press about this case. "Not that I know of. I've been laying low for a week, getting out of the States. Figuring out Michael's directives."

"But you had your team with you at the hotel last night."

_Busted._ Rick sighed. "Gashkouri helped me get away from them this morning. I ditched her downtown."

"Poor little Pakki," the old man sneered. "She'll never know what hit her."

"Why her?"

"Her mam caught Michael with some, uh, contraband items in the airport restroom. Almost got away. He had a mess. Had to call in reinforcements..."

"I take it that was a stain on his reputation."

"Haha, you'd better believe it. Bein' outwitted by a Pakki cleaning lady? Not somethin' he'd take lightly." Murphy reached for a magnetic strip mounted on the wall, selected a serrated knife out of twelve diverse blades, and began slicing some homemade brown bread. "Michael always liked keeping tabs on his conquests. Not just the death, but the wreckage, you know? Surprising how useful those people can be."

"So I've learned."

"You want some toast? Sausage?"

"Already ate." His stomach, in fact, felt like he'd swallowed a fistful of Legos. "So what happened to Gashkouri's mother?"

"Same as the others, once he caught up to her. Made it clear while he killed her that her whole family would suffer. Uppity bitch spat in his face." Finished with the bread, Murphy got a packet of bacon out of the fridge. It was not pre-sliced, and something about it looked... odd. Rick shuddered as the butcher selected a large chef's knife and expertly cut perfectly even, thick slices of bacon. The old man glanced up at him humorously. "Irish bacon is so much better than that American streaky shite."

Rick said thickly, "I'm partial to Canadian, myself."

"Little Patty's comin' to breakfast, too."

"Little Patty?"

"Ah. They've never mentioned...? - well, per'aps you didn't have time for much polite conversation."

"That's true. Who's Little Patty?"

The kettle whistled, and the old man poured boiling water into the earthenware teapot. It was a beautiful, speckled mocha brown fading to white. A shame. Rick really liked that teapot a lot, but if he were to buy one, he'd always be reminded of how horrible he felt, sitting in that kitchen.

The old man said, "It's early yet if you want to go up and introduce yourself to Greta. Maybe have a go at Tiff before Patty gets here." He winked. "I know you like to play with 'em first."

Rick swallowed. "How do you know that?"

"Eh, you know, the snuff-net. Michael hooked me in a couple years ago when he met Grossmann."

Rick smiled uneasily. "So you saw me with..."

"Oh, ya know. The redhead, what's her name, Meredith, and o' course Kate. She's good with the cuffs, ain't she?"

Rick nodded, his face flaming. "I'm gonna miss that."

"But you really got into the groove with Kayla, though I didn't actually see much. The screams..." He shook his head fondly. "My first hard-on in two years. And man, that thing with Eloise..."

"Elise."

"Yeh, That, my lad, was a thing 'o beauty. Art form. Shame they took that one down."

"It was one of the greatest accomplishments of my life," Rick said, truthfully enough. _Got her out of there alive. I can do this._ "Do you have a cam on Tiffany?"

The old man nodded. "It's in the parlor." He washed his knives and put them back on the magnet strip with the others.

He poured the tea into earthenware mugs – and damn it, perfectly balanced, the pot didn't drip at all. Rick took his mug ("No milk, thank you, black is fine.") and sniffed it, but didn't drink.

They went into the front parlor, where Rick hadn't noticed the large monitor on an ornate mahogany desk next to the entertainment center. Murphy had a screensaver – a slide show, "Sausages of the World". He woke his Mac up and grinned at Rick. "So nice I don't have to wear me glasses – I like zoomin' in."

Rick nodded. "First thing to go is the eyes."

"Yeh. Then the knees. Then the prostrate. If I'd 'a' known, I would've had a lot more sex in me wasted youth."

"Duly noted."

Murphy pulled up a list of files titled, "Eye of the Tiger," and scrolled through, starting with "Cam_1", moving on down through hundreds.

Rick said, "Do you know how to do a search?"

"No, I'm a bit of an old geezer, ye know? Little Patty set this up for me. I'd be lost without...bloody hell, where's me little arrow?" He wiggled the mouse ineffectually in a huge, age-spotted hand.

Rick said, "Okay, go up… no.. with your cursor. Do you mind if I drive?"

Murphy handed him the mouse. "It's Cam_273."

"Okay. I'm clicking the search cell, see the cursor flashing? Here. Now I type the name... press Enter. And there we are."

"Well, fancy that," the old man smiled for the first time, his teeth crooked, gapped, brown. Rick stared at the screen. It was in real time, the camera mounted on the ceiling. A small, cute room, a bed, a lot of books scattered on the floor around it, and Tiffany Ross, wearing a tie-dyed tee shirt and Pulpy Couture yoga pants with a hole in the knee. She was lying on the bed on her back, blinking sleepily at the ceiling with a mournful look on her face. A black-and-white cat was trying to knead biscuits on Tiffany's tummy. There was a bathroom door off to the far left of the room, showing white tiled floor with black grouting. The entry door – unless one entered from the bathroom, which is possible in a bungalow – was obscured from view. Someone had been sloppy setting up the cam in what was probably a ceiling light fixture.

"She's, uh, downstairs?"

"No, in the attic. Come on up, I need to change out of me jambos anyway."

They ascended the stairs to the second floor, with Murphy pausing to catch breath at the landing. He pointed. "Attic door's at the end. Greta's up there in her studio. I think she likely worked all night... she gets like that when she's excited."

Rick went to the attic stairs. The smell of decay was a bit stronger here. The stairs were dimly lit by a single flickering fluorescent bulb that left the top in near-darkness, and he could see there was another door at the top. He had big feet, and the stairs were quite steep, so he had to move with care. He knocked: "Greta?"

A soft voice answered, "Hold on, it's locked."

A tiny, round woman opened the door. She was in her sixties, her face lined, her hair dyed the wrong shade of purplish auburn. She wore hot-pink lipstick, and her eyeliner was smeared. She was wearing a shiny polyester teal track suit, no doubt fleece-lined and super-comfy, and turquoise mukluks. "Oh, goodness!" she murmured, and stepped back with her hand over her mouth. She hurried over to her work table and grabbed a full set of dentures out of a glass of water, and popped them in. "Sorry, I wash exshpecting Murphy," she said. Around the un-settled dentures, her accent sounded vaguely German, veiled in Irish.

Surveying the room, Castle's eyes were wide. There were hundreds of Christmas lights, draped from the rafters and festooning the walls. Their tiny, white twinkles illuminated boxes and boxes of bones. Mostly human.

_Holy shit._ He hoped he hadn't said that out loud. He fought an urge to break and run, run, run down those stairs, out of that hellish house, forget Tiffany, forget the Gashkouris' mother and all those victims, just get the hell away and forget it all, go live on an island with his wife and a couple of chickens and make babies and swim with dolphins all day long...

Instead, he hastily dried his sweaty palm on his pants, assumed his most charming smile, and stepped into the attic. "Greta, I presume?" He took her hand and kissed the back, meeting her eyes, and she simpered a little, clearly unused to this kind of attention. His voice squeaked a little on the question: "Are you the artist?" He gestured wide, turning to look at her handiwork. The life-size diorama of a Germanic-looking family. The skeletal angel with outspread wings of bone, encrusted with costume jewelry, bottle caps, and bits of colored foil. The niche made of femurs and skulls. A new niche, big, empty, waiting.

She said, "Do you like them?"

He couldn't speak, just nodded, glassy-eyed, and went up for a closer look, his mind screaming. _"Run. Come back later. These loons aren't going anywhere." _Another voice in his mind, maybe Beckett's: _"She's depending on you. Everyone's depending on you. Don't you dare leave her." _

Greta walked alongside him, watching his face hungrily, trying to gauge his reaction. "I've experimented for years with different materials... first wax, back in the 60's. I tried different kinds of plastics and waxes for the skin... even experimented with foam latex, but that doesn't hold up over time."

Rick nodded, remembering a Halloween mask that had deteriorated in storage. He said faintly, "Latex breaks down after a few years."

"Yes! All that work wasted. Crumbled away."

"Have you ever seen those silicone dolls? The life-size ones?"

"Never in person."

"They're amazing. I could set you up with the silicone. The mold-making process is kind of a pain from what I've heard, but the results are spectacular. It looks _alive_."

She stared at him. "You'd do that?"

"I'm a patron of the arts. Some more esoteric than others."

"Patron of the arts," she murmured.

He reached out as if to touch - but came nowhere near - the careful assemblage of bones. "This reminds me of the ossuary at Sedlec."

"Really?" She stepped over to the new niche. "I love those chandeliers! Such an inspiration! But at my age, I'm not sure I could wire one without setting the house on fire."

"I don't suppose you could send it out to an electrician."

She snickered. "No. Michael always said he would do it for me, but he is _such_ a procrastinator. Speaking of Michael, do you think he will come, now that you are here?"

"We don't get along well. We'll see."

"We have heard nothing from him since your wedding day. I wonder what has happened him this time."

"I dunno where he is either," Rick shrugged (it was partly true; Rick didn't know where Michael's charred remains were currently stashed.) "He's led me on quite a chase. What did you have planned for the new niche?"

"I'm not sure yet. Something bigger. Maybe a little... darker. I was thinking of a demon, perhaps. To go with my angel."

Rick nodded. "Balance." He gave it a moment's thought. "You know, I'd consider helping you upgrade your next project's embellishments to Swarovka crystal. You've done amazing work on a budget. I can only imagine what you'd do with the real thing."

"I learned to improvise over the years." She held up a hat that would leave Lovecraft at a loss for hyperbole. "It's so much easier now that I got the hot glue gun. The old glues gave me such headaches."

"Yeah, the VOCs will turn your brain to Swiss cheese." He looked over her work area. She had a large white table piled with assorted art and craft supplies, the wall above lined with shelves and cubbies. There was a high-tech sewing machine; a large magnifying light; containers of beads and ribbon; all kinds of scrapbooking crap; scissors and exacto knives and tubes of glue and acrylic paint and a tiny cosmetic airbrush set... she had enough supplies to clothe every skeleton in those storage boxes, which he guessed were at least twenty plus several animals. His insides clenched in an involuntary shiver.

Her yellowed smile was both shy and eager. "There's more downstairs in my room. If you'd like to see."

Indicating the closed door at the back of the attic room, between the bone niches, Rick said, "I would, but first..."

"Ah. You want a visit with Tiffy before we put her down?"

He tried to swallow the shake in his voice. "Depends on what kind of shape she's in."

Greta smiled proudly. "I have fed her well. Pampered her. I even clipped her nails the other day. So she won't be able to get a scratch into you."

"Do you have a key?"

Greta fished in her tracksuit pants pocket and held it out to him. He took it and went to the door, turned it in the lock. She stood behind him as he opened the door, and put a hand on his bicep, admonishing him gently. "No bruises, mind you. Careful."

Rick nodded.

Greta's eyes narrowed, and he saw the venom flicker under her placid expression. "This is probably her last time. Do not make it so hard on her, huh?"

"Duly noted." The room had a low night-light, but the windows were shuttered so that only the palest of morning light slatted in. It was pink and flowery, lined with empty bookshelves, and smelled of stale air and catbox. There was a young woman, plump and blonde, sitting in the corner of the bed, holding a black-and-white cat. She had stacked books around the bed in a sort of wall, ordered roughly in size, with the largest at the bottom. It would be a bit of an effort to step over them without tripping or knocking them over.

Tiffany threw a book at Greta just before she pulled the door shut: with perfect aim, but a fraction of a second too late. The book landed harmlessly on the floor next to Rick. It was a paperback. Dannielle Steele.

"Please, just let us go," the girl whimpered. Her brown eyes were huge in her pale, round face. Rick wondered when she had last seen sunlight. The door locked behind him.

_"Brilliant move there, WriterBoy,"_ cackled Mephistopheles. Rick said aloud, "Good throw."

"Softball team," Tiffany said. It was a warning, her hand reaching for her nearest stack of books. "You want hardback or paperback?"

"Magazine?"

•

Greta toddled downstairs slowly, meeting Murphy by his bedroom door. "He seems like a good fellow," she said. "He admires my work. I wonder what he will think of my Nativity..."

Murphy said, "Don't let that sway you. _Last man standing_, remember? He'd just as soon kill you as give you the time of day."

Greta said, "I am sure you are right, Murphy. All the same..." she glanced longingly down the hall at her bedroom, where the skeletal remains of several farm animals, Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus awaited her nightly devotion beneath a firmament of cut-paper star lanterns. "Are you supposing anyone followed him?"

"Nah. He left the Pakkis back at Molly Malone. Eejits, alla them."

She sighed and looked at her watch. "Little Patty should be visiting any time now."

"Should be," Murphy said. "But you know there's still a lot of room for things to go to hell."

Greta reached up and booped the tip of his red nose lightly with one arthritic finger. "Yeh, but we've had a good run."

•

Tiffany stared at the tall man standing by the door. She grabbed another book and stood on the bed, her back to the corner, the struggling cat tucked under her left arm. "Don't you come near me," she said.

To her surprise, he shrugged and said, "Okay," headed toward the bathroom, and closed the door. She heard him use the facilities and wash up, then he turned on the shower, which was a miserable little unit, its pump whining rhythmically as it pushed a feeble trickle of water through an on-demand heater. He came back out of the bathroom to find her still standing in the far corner of the bed, the pillows puffing up around her ankles. Without warning, the man stepped up onto the bed, shoes and all; she threw another book which he parried with the cast on his right forearm, then he lunged at her, pressing her against the corner, one large hand locked inescapably around her wrist, his chest pinning her shoulder. She struggled, and the cat leaped away with a squall.

He was a big man, and she cowered back in terror. "No! Let me go!"

He just pushed her back and gritted, "Be still and listen. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You're already hurting me!" She squirmed, trying to knee him in the crotch, but he was too close and too strong.

His voice hissed in her ear. He had a slight trace of a lisp. "Your mother shent me. Your shafe word is _eidelweissh_."

She stopped struggling. "What?"

"Shh." he whispered. He bent low to speak quickly in her ear. "I'm sorry, I'm trying not to squash you but they think I'm here to kill you, and they're wrong. But they're dangerous. They have a camera in the ceiling fixture and the room might be bugged. Your safe word, with your mom. She told me it was eidelweiss. In case someone tried to kidnap you."

"Eidelweiss." Her favorite song when she was five. For the first time since she saw the bodies on the other side of the bedroom door, she felt just a little bit hopeful. "My mom. Is she here somewhere? Can I go home?"

"Shhh. Quiet. I'm gonna drag you to the bathroom. Struggle a little but not too much. The white noise from the shower should help." He took her wrists and pulled back out of the corner, dragging her off the bed.

She screamed, "What are you doing?"

He replied, loudly enough for the camera to pick up, "I'm gonna clean ush up a little first."

He hauled her into the bathroom, and shut the door. There was no lock. There was a ceiling fan, and he switched it on, then leaned his back against the door. The bathroom was quite small, a bit steamy from the shower. He said, "Scream."

"What?"

"Scream. As loud as you want. Make them think I'm hurting you."

She stared at him blankly. "Are you _nuts_?"

He frowned, frustrated, and said loudly enough for anyone listening to hear. "Look, you gotta work with me here." He took out his wallet and held up his brand-new replacement New York driver's license. Then quietly, "I'm Rick Castle." He didn't expect her to have heard of him, and although she'd read a couple of his books, she somehow didn't make the connection that he was _that_ Richard Castle. "I'm here to rescue you." He flipped the wallet and showed her a couple of photos. Softly: "That's my daughter. She's about a year younger than you. My mother. And that's my wife – Kate Beckett. Kate's an NYPD detective. We've been looking for you for weeks."

"You look like the guy who kidnapped me."

Mr. Castle frowned, embarrassed. "He's my brother. Was my brother. He was... Look. I wouldn't hurt you any more than I'd hurt any of them."

Looking at the pics of the two redheads, and his supermodel wife, Tiffany's distrust faded a little. He was sort of handsome for a guy old enough to be her father, and seemed sincere, and also kind of familiar. But the people who'd taken her from the parking lot in their SUV had also seemed sincere. Told her some crazy story about needing to go into witness protection for her own safety. Drugged her, flown her somewhere, then somewhere else. Now she was here, in an attic full of dead people, probably going to join them. And he was here to _rescue_ her? He looked like an English teacher or something. Definitely in over his head.

Mr. Castle said, "So, you feel like giving them a good scream now? Like you're on a roller coaster. It'll echo better in the shower stall."

He put his fingers in his ears, and she shook the room with her very best effort. He laughed. "That's good. Really good." He gestured with his hand to keep going.

"Somebody HELP ME!" she screamed again.

He gave her a thumbs up and whispered cheerfully, "My ears are _bleeding_."

She said, "What about the police? Why didn't they come?"

"Long story. But we're in Ireland. And I had... we had a hell of a time trying to find you."

"_Ireland_?"

"Shh. Yes."

"How are we gonna get home?"

"All we have to do is get _out_. Getting home... piece of cake." Seeing she'd calmed down a bit, he looked around the bathroom, above the sink and under it, around the toilet and the light fixture and the shower stall, looking for a cam. He also glanced at the window. It had been shuttered, and the shutters were screwed into the sill. Tiffany had already tried it. No getting out that way.

"But they just locked you in!" She moaned, "Omigod, we are so fucked."

"Not at all. Do you know Murphy's Law?"

She looked at him blankly. He added. "Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong."

"So?"

"That means that if Murphy's law's on our side, anything that can go _right_ will go right."

"I don't think... wait, does it work that way?"

"It does if the building isn't rigged to explode and take us all out."

"Oh. _Way_ to make me feel better."

As he searched the room she backed away, keeping her distance. She couldn't stop watching him, because he might just turn completely crazy any second. He said, "I'm so sorry about everything you've been through, Tiffany. Have you been hurt?"

She said, "Not much. They acted pretty normal until just recently when I tried to get out. And it's hard to tell with time and all, but this guy came to my room. I think it was yesterday." She folded her arms over her chest, which was hardly covered by the thin T-shirt. "He was so creepy."

Mr. Castle's voice was gentle. "You okay?"

Her face felt hot, and her stomach went all tight. "He, uh. He didn't touch me or anything. Just, he, uh, he watched me. And he was, he played with himself. It was so gross." The cat meowed then, and shoved its paw under the door, batting around. Tiffany was relieved to change the subject. "Silly Fabio."

He whispered, "How about another scream now?"

Tiffany let out a shriek that would send a banshee running for cover. The cat's paw disappeared from under the door. He heard the bedroom door open &amp; shut, and heavy footsteps coming.

Somebody pounded at the bathroom door. "Hey. No bruising."

Tiffany recognized the voice and whimpered, "Don't let him get me."

Mr. Castle stuck his head into the shower stall, using the reverb for effect. "Right. Sorry! No bruises." He gestured to Tiffany again, and she saw he wanted her to actually get into the shower stall. She did so, screaming her lungs out, and undercover of the noise, he stepped behind the wooden bathroom door. The door swung in halfway, and Little Patty's deep voice said, "Hey, can I wa-"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" screamed Tiffany. She wasn't faking it. She could see Patty trying to get in through the bathroom door. He was tall, so totally handsome he could have been a fashion model. And he was smiling the way he smiled yesterday with his perfect white teeth, when he told her to take off her clothes or he'd just go ahead and kill her.

•

Planting his feet and snapping back hard with his torso, Rick smashed the door into the man on the other side, propelling it back with his considerable weight and all his strength.

"Oof." He heard the man staggering backward, then falling into a pile of books. Rick stepped out of the bathroom, fists ready, to find Danny Halloran, all six-feet-six-and-223-pounds-of-muscle, rising slowly back off the floor, nursing a bloody nose. Rick did not know Danny Halloran's real name, just surmised that he went by the nickname "Little Patty" and was built like a bronze god.

Danny rose to his full height, and growled down at Rick. "What the fuck."

Rick paused, his mouth gone dry. "Sorry," Rick said. "I like my privacy." The element of surprise now gone, his brain chanted, "_Buy time, buy time, buy time..." _

Danny looked slowly from Rick, who was mostly dry aside from a little wet hair, to Tiffany, who had turned off the shower and hastily wrapped a towel around her wet T-shirt and clingy yoga pants. The towel was way too small.

Rick said, "Now, if you'll excuse us, you'll just have to wait your turn."

"And who the hell are you?" Dan already knew, but he wanted Castle's version of it.

Rick looked up at Little Patty anxiously, feeling smaller than he'd felt since just after he punched Ethan Slaughter. "Richard Castle. Mystery author, bon vivant, inveterate fanboy. I take it you're, uh, _Little_ Patty?"

Danny nodded. "Sometimes. Where's Michael?"

"Somewhere in New York, I think."

"And Rose?"

"Same."

"Ah, fuck. She promised me she was gonna kill him."

"You think she'd do that herself?" Castle chuckled. "I thought she preferred to let other people do her dirty work."

Danny snarled and lunged at Rick, who hopped back with a little squeak to find that Tiffany had quietly closed the bathroom door behind him. He hadn't noticed that Greta had come alongside, and she was holding a syringe.

Rick felt a little jab in his right shoulder, and slapped at it. Then he felt the familiar, ants-crawling sensation on his skin as anesthesia overtook him. What was the word for it? He muttered it now, as he crashed face-first onto the carpet: _"Formication."_

•

*I didn't realize what the title would be until 3 pages into the chapter. Made me laugh.

GeekMom - That formication is for YOU. Thanks for the dirty-sounding-clean-word-of-the-day!


	49. Chapter 49

_Too Soon Chapter 49 – Inevitable Betrayal_

_We'll meet again,_  
_Don't know where, don't know when,_  
_But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day._  
_Keep smiling through,_  
_Just like you always do,_  
_Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds, far away._  
_So will you please say hello,_  
_To the folks that I know,_  
_Tell them I won't be long, (I won't be long)_  
_They'll be happy to know that as you saw me go_  
_I was singing this song._

**Huntsman's Arms Hotel, 4:45 a.m.**  
Teresa's alarm woke her from a dead sleep, and it took a moment to get oriented in Rick's room, with her niece still sound asleep on the king-size bed next to her. She looked at Kate and sighed. If Johanna knew what kind of mess she'd allowed Kate to get into, there would have been hell to pay. But then, Johanna's own adventures had gotten Kate into an even bigger mess. Something Teresa's own agency should have had a clue about. Oh well. Fine tuning.

Teresa had set the coffee pot the night before as well, and took a brief shower while it perked. Kate was dead to the world, and Teresa was drying her hair when Rick called from the pay phone and left a voice mail. Teresa put together a plate of crackers and woke Kate, who had to wave them off and run to the bathroom without even taking a bite. Teresa sighed. "I wish I could be of better help to you."

Kate rinsed her mouth. "Thanks, Aunt Tee. You're wonderful, it's not your fault. She glanced at her phone and frowned a little. "I don't recognize this number." Teresa watched as Kate listened to the voicemail, went even paler, clutched the side of the sink, and sat down abruptly on the floor.

"What is it?"

Kate said faintly, "It's Rick. He's... He's on his own. Somewhere in Dublin. Gashkouri..." She shook her head. "I'm gonna kill that bitch." She said, "Tee, can you wake Hunt up? We need to move." She was just about to call Ryan when her phone rang. Her eyes went wide, and she hurried around the room, dressing as she listened to him explain Esposito's story, and transferred the intel to Teresa. "Mo's sick, Castle's gone missing with Gashkouri, and Matt's on their trail with the dog."

Teresa rolled her eyes. "Top o' the mornin'." She headed down the hall to pound on Hunt's door.

•

**July 4, 5:40 a.m.**  
Ameena had just split up with Sammy and was hurrying north when her personal phone rang. It was Rourke, and his voice scared the hell out of her. "What the FUCK is goin' on, Gashkouri."

"Well, good morning to you too, Sir."

"Shut up. We have your father here at Halloran's and the poor man's in a state. What have you got him mixed up in?"

"My fa- _what_?" she stopped in the middle of an intersection and was nearly hit by a bus. The driver honked and roared past her, cursing a blue streak: "Go back to India, you stupid cow."

She flipped him. "Fuck you, I'm from Pakistan!" and went back to the call when she'd crossed the street. "What did you find at Halloran's?"

"Well, nothin'. The place is cleared out. We found a camera in the ceiling fixture, and a pen with your da's logo on it, and then we found your man himself, in the bin."

"No!" She rubbed her eyes frantically. "Is he all right? Can I talk to him?"

"Yeh, he came conscious a while ago but he's still utterly loopy. We barely got a sentence outta him, now he's askin' for his lawyer. And where the hell are you? What's goin' on with Mr. Castle?"

Gashkouri took a deep breath. "Look, that's a long story..."

"For which I have absolutely no time or patience."

"Castle asked me to take him downtown. Then he tased me and took off on his own. In my brother's truck."

"Why the fuck..."

"I guess he didn't trust us."

"Well he slept with ya, din't he?"

"What? NO!"

"Oh, no wait, sorry, that was Espotizzo."

"Esposito." Gashkouri's face was a picture of hot misery. "Has he been in touch with you?"

"That he has. I don't suppose you engineered the whole exploding dog-handler scenario."

"Oh, God, no. I just... God, sir, this mess is all my fault. But I did nothing to harm any of them."

"I suppose the review board is goin' to have to decide that. Meantime I want you to head to the local precinct, check in with the sergeant at arms, and turn in both your gun and badge. Now."

"Castle has my gun, sir."

The long silence on the other end was worse than anything he could have said.

•

**7:20 a.m., Murphy's**  
Truth is, Castle no longer had Gashkouri's gun, or her brother's box knife; when he fell to the floor, the first thing Danny Halloran did was to punch him in the stomach, just for fun, then pat him down and confiscate the weaponry.

Tiffany heard a thud, and a heaviness slid down the other side of her bedroom door. She whimpered, "Oh, hell, no."

After some bustle, the door opened again, and there was huge, handsome, nasty Little Patty leering down at her. She backed across the room, tripping on her own towers of books, and fell back sprawling on the bed, and crawled away.

Faintly, Murphy's voice floated upstairs. "Your eggs are getting' cold, folks. Hurry the hell up."

Greta Krystow looked down at Castle. "He will sleep like a baby for an hour or two. Rose told me we have to let the sedative metabolize before we can use him downstairs."

"We could sell the meat as turkey. Make you nod right out," Danny snickered.

"Ah, the muscle groups are too big, you know that," said Krystow.

"Hand me some rope," said Danny. "Just in case."

The old woman rummaged amongst a set of plastic drawers and found some 2" wide polyester grosgrain ribbon in a charming hue of raspberry.

Danny rolled his eyes. "Really?"

"This is very strong. And it will not cut his skin."

"All right then." Danny rolled Castle over on his belly, and Castle murmured, "Not now, Kate."

In a moment, Castle's wrists were bound behind his back, then Danny bound his boot ankles and hogtied it all together behind. For a second, Danny's hand paused at Ameena Gashkouri's burner phone, still taped to Rick's shin. But it felt like the thick leather edge of his boot, and Danny was distracted by the old lady. "No bruises!" she repeated.

Castle, who was feeling no pain, mumbled, "Well, thish is different."

Danny leered over at Tiffany, who was crying on the bed. She shrank back, afraid to resist, and with two more pieces of ribbon, he tied her wrists to its frame.

He ground against her a moment, then pushed off and stepped away. "I'll be back up after breakfast. And I won't just be watching this time." He prodded Castle with his foot. "Might make him watch, though. Sure and he'll love it."

**7:30 a.m., Murphy's**

He turned to Krystow. "Lock her in."

Greta nodded, closed and locked the bedroom door. Tiffany lay tied to the bed, sobbing her heart out. Fabio sat on her pillow and licked the tears from her face. Salt water was better than nothing, and he was hungry.

Greta tucked the key back in her track-suit pocket and turned to Little Patty. "Go on down to your brekkers, lad. I've got some glue setting up here." She was making a breast plate fit for a prince: paper mache spray-painted gold, with a mosaic of broken mirror bits and flat-backed plastic rhinestones. The fumes from the glue smelled sweet and heady.

Danny patted her arm. "You're an odd one."

"I just don't like to eat before nine," she said. "Me doctor gives me ructions, but I'm perfectly fine with a good cup of tea."

Danny ran a hand through his thick, black hair. "Yeh, well I've been up all night emptyin' out me Da's bed-sitter, and I could eat a horse."

"How'd that go?"

"I got all the papers, all the files, all the pictures. They're in the back of the van, and auld Gashkouri's prints are all over the place. Also left a pen. He'll have a grand time explainin' that to his daughter."

"Have you heard from your father?"

"No. He's not answerin', but he did say he was goin' to get Mrs. Castle around six last night. That's the last I heard from him."

"Has he figured out that you have been the one calling him?"

Danny paused. "Hard to say. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees me, though." He grinned, then mimed, parodying his father's puzzled face coming to a slow, horrified realization, then grinned again. "He'll shite a brick."

"Watch your language, young man," she snapped. Then she added with more sympathy, "It serves him right, considering everything he put you through."

"Can I bring you back a cuppa?"

"No, no, I'll be down soon enough."

He exited, and she locked the attic door behind him.

Mephistopheles chuckled and murmured in Rick's ear: "Any thing you do can and will be used against you, twisted at the last moment..."

"Damned if I do, damned if I don't?"

"Haha. Bingo."

Rick lay on the ground, his eyes closed, feeling a vague sense of ouch where he was hogtied. "I'm out. I've got nothing left. No more."

"You're right about that," said Meph.

"Of course you do," said Petros. "Remember, Gashkouri's dyslexic?"

"Yeah, dylsexic. She gets her directions wixed up. Numbers, too." The demon's mouth was close, warm breath rasping, the shrimplike crustacean on his tongue rasping in a creepy-sexy way at Rick's earlobe.

"Make it stop," Rick whimpered. "I've had enough."

Petros stamped his bare foot with a soft "pof" sound on the cloudy floor, a shock wave that flushed Mephistopheles down and away into a sooty, flaming drain-hole, arms and hair and codpiece and snake and legs flailing in all directions, helpless as a falling ant. His shriek faded into the distance, echoing, and a small black cloud of fungus gnats drifted about in momentary confusion, then dove back, following him down to hell.

"_Okay_!" the angel snapped. "I am DONE with this. NO more inevitable betrayals. NONE."

"Ogod. Thank you. I'm so tired," Rick sighed.

Mephistopheles stood over him again "You are a very beautiful young man," he said. His voice was high and creaky, like an old woman's.

Greta went over to her work table and looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, then selected a large pair of sewing scissors. Their steel blades flashed, reflecting a thousand tiny lights.

"You will do," she said to the scissors. Their metal jaws slashed and clenched in response: _"Ready. Always ready."_

•

**7:30 a.m., South Dublin, R138**

Four miles away, Hunt's SUV fought its way through the Dublin morning commute. They passed a coffee house chain that sold the most amazing spinach croissants, and Kate had to force herself not to beg Jackson to stop the car. A moment later they arrived at the Molly Malone statue, and all thoughts of spinach evaporated. While Jackson waited at the wheel, the others got out of the car and walked around the statue, hoping for some kind of clue, but there wasn't much.

Ryan found a man's hat – specifically, the newsboy cap Rick had acquired from the Hallton concierge. In the bronze cockle basket. Feeling like an idiot, Kate sniffed it. Betsy would have been so thrilled with her. The smell was complex: the must of storge, hotel shampoo and soap, and slightly damp wool, Pakistani incense and cheap skunky pot and cheaper cigarettes and just, oh so faintly, _Castle_. She plucked a single, fine, glossy brown hair from the hatband. Definitely his.

She brought it to Hunt. "The bill was pointing north," she said. Esposito added, "Castle had a pile of clothes and radio stuff delivered to the hotel room last night. Pretty sure I saw it."

"Okay, then." They got back into the SUV and he drove slowly, heading roughly northeast as they rounded St. Stephen's Green. _  
• _  
**7:35 a.m., Murphy's**  
Greta padded over to Castle's unconscious body, hogtied on the floor, and watched him, her scissors raised. Yes. Truly a beautiful man, just right to add to her collection. She'd given him a low dose, and he was already beginning to come around a little. With obvious pain in her arthritic back and knees, she bent over him, and with effort, cut the ribbon connecting wrists and boots. She stroked his cheek with a trembling hand. "So strong. So … unusual. I want to make a cast of you," she said. "You will keep me company."

He stirred. "Wha?"

She said, "I will make you a deal. Do you understand?"

"No. Where's... Finity. Finfinity."

"Wake up, Mr. Castle."

"'m tired."

She sighed, and moving to Tiffany's door, unlocked it, then stood over the girl thoughtfully, holding the scissors. The cat, who was as hungry as his mistress, crouched on the bed at her side. He looked up at the old woman and mewed.

"I am going to cut you loose. If you misbehave, you will never leave this house alive." She waited, watching Tiffany whimpering on the bed. "I want to make a deal."

It took Tiffany a moment to understand. "What kind of deal?"

"Those men, downstairs. They are playing. They have been playing at this death too long. Up until now, that has been good for me, but this man here." She leaned over awkwardly and cut first one of Tiffany's ribbons, then the other. "Richard Castle. He understands."

"Understands what?"

"Death is not a game."

"Okay..." Tiffany sat up and rubbed her wrists.

"Death is a _sacrament_." She absently stroked Fabio's velvet black ears, then picked him up gently and carried him into the charnel shrine, cradling the cat in her arms as she stood over over Castle again. Tiffany followed her. "And when we die, we come unto the ultimate peace. We discard our bodies the way children discard the toys they have outgrown."

"Broken," Castle mumbled.

"That's right, Mr. Castle. We are broken toys."

"Got gooo?"

She leaned over him. "You mean glue?" She chuckled. "People are so funny when they are drugged."

He struggled to open his eyes. "Not funny." He flopped over from his side to back to look up at Tiffany, whose stood between him and the angel effigy behind her. "Petros? Your wings. Showing."

Tiffany got the creepiest sensation down the back of her spine, turned and looked at the angel. In the half-light, its face was sad. The blue rhinestone eyes glittered like a child's tears. Castle's eyes closed again and he murmured, "When di' you get so byewfy? Beaufital? Pretty."

Greta let the cat leap down out of her arms. Fabio sat by Castle's shoulder. The big man was the warmest thing in the room, and he wasn't moving, so Fabio made the most obvious choice: he hopped onto Castle's chest and curled up on it.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, Castle felt the slight weight on his chest. "Just sleep, baby." He found he was lying on his own hands, and couldn't reach up to hold the baby. He was afraid it would fall off. "Kate? Get the baby."

The baby mewled. "I want spinach." It sounded exactly like a cat.

•  
7:50 a.m.  
Betsy had been trotting along the tracks, with Matt close on her heels, for what felt like hours. They had dodged broken glass, bits of wire, and a few trains. He felt the vibration of the approaching trains before he heard them. She didn't care, but he did, and he had to pick her up bodily and haul her, struggling, as they honked at them and then screamed by. With the 7:49, he saw the train operator's terrified face, and knew it had been too close – those trains move fast. Matt gave what he hoped was an ingratiating and friendly wave.

Betsy's droopy eyes looked disappointed. He got a treat out of her pannier and gave it to her. She took it gently, went back to the track and sniffed. Rick's scent was down to almost nothing, worn away by the metal wheels of several trains. She was getting thirsty and tired, and while she liked Matt all right, she missed Mo. She wished the people she loved would just _stay put_. STAY. Why did she never get to tell anyone to stay?

Matt said, "Come on, Betsy. Where's Rick?"

"Fnuff." She started up again, and Matt trotted along behind her. "Good girl."

•  
**7:51 a.m. Commute train Northbound**  
The train operator called in to the station. "There's some kind of nut on the tracks with a dog. Can you get officers out to take a look? No, I don't think he's suicidal, looked pretty feckin' chipper. Marker 47, eastbound."

•  
**7:58 a.m., Murphy's**

Castle was stilly lying on the floor, barely recovering from the dose. He chuckled. "Spinach."

Inside his head, Mephistopheles said, "The drug's wearing off now. I should have left you tied up." Meph looked across at Petros. "Don't get too close, sometimes they get violent."

Petros's voice was high and girlish. He said, "Violent?"

"It's possible, but usually not. More often they get headaches, or they cry. When Michael and Rose brought you to us, you sang every song from Cinderella."

Castle opened his eyes and squinted at Tiffany. "Petrosh, you look jus' like Tinfitty."

Petros said, "I _am_ Tiffany," with some irritation.

"I wish you were Beckett. She know whatta do. But then she'd be here an' she can't be here caush..." he scowled. Oddly, he felt the pain before he saw the weapon; Mephistopheles' huge hands spread out and the nails started drilling into Rick's skull.

Rick whined, "That hurts." The pain roared through his head, and he groaned, twisting. Offended, Fabio hopped down again. Apparently this man was not made for catnaps.

Petros backed away from Castle. "You're coming out of anesthesia."

Mephistopheles grinned like a mean old woman with ill-fitting dentures. "It's going to hurt quite a lot."

"No more." Tears leaked out of Rick's eyes, and trickled down his temples. "I don't wanna die without Kate."

Meph snickered. "We all die, Mr. Castle. But if I let get you out of here alive, you owe me. I want to show my work. I want everyone to see this vision. And I want a cast of you. I want to own a piece of you. Promise me."

"Make it stop," he begged.

"It has to run its course," Meph shrugged. He stood up and stepped away in his mukluks.

Petros scowled down at Rick and slapped his cheek. "WAKE UP." He awoke with a headache you would not believe, words battering at his skull like pigeons trying to escape an abandoned gelatine factory. Mephistopheles had turned into an old lady in a track suit, waved a cheery goodbye, and went out, locking the attic door behind her.

Tiffany was crouched a safe distance from Rick, batting at his left cheek with a magazine. Her cat was nestled by Castle's right ear, and the moment Rick came to, Fabio began washing his own bum, pretending he hadn't just been licking a perfect stranger. The girl sat back anxiously on her haunches, and from behind her, broad, jeweled, bony wings spread out like those of an angel, and the night was full of stars.

"Fiffany?" he squeaked. "You a angel? Flittany. Tiffniffffy. Shit, my inside out is talking me."

"You sound like you just went to the dentist," she huffed.

He closed his eyes. "Schleepin' in. Don' get up, Beckett..."

Tiffany hit him with the magazine again. "Wake up, Mr. Castle. Come on. That's a big boy. _Hey!"_

She clapped her hands, but he snored softly. She sighed and went back to the bathroom, grabbed her plastic water cup, and returned to dash him in the face with it. He spluttered and squirmed, weight fully and painfully on the arms (also his cast) pinned behind his back. Fabio yowled and streaked away.

"Whappened me?" He rolled over onto his side and groaned. "Are we dead yet?"

"No," she looked around apprehensively. "But they said they're coming back soon. They're gonna try calling Michael, just in case. They're afraid to piss him off."

He blinked around, trying to get oriented, and chuckled. "That'sh too bad. I killed him at my wedding."

She scooted back hastily, standing behind the stack of femurs. "You what?"

"Shelf defensh. Damn it." Rick spoke more carefully, gathering his wits. The anesthesia still shrouded his brain. "Self defense. Hey, I can't find my hands," he said mournfully. "Where they go?"

Tiffany hesitated, then squatted behind him and untied his wrists. It took awhile; the knots were haphazard but tight. Castle said, "I'm gonna hate somebony in the morning."

"Not me!" she said.

He cleared his throat. "Wore water? Not inna face." He sat up more fully and rubbed his pounding forehead. She went and returned with the full cup; he drained it. "Thanks. Better."  
Head resting sleepily on his knee, Rick looked down at the perfume ad on the back of the Vague magazine she'd dropped on the floor. He said, "Foursey-teveneneleevan."

"What?"

"Forsy. Fortyleven. Fortysevenleven." He tapped the logo.

"4711?"

He pulled up the hem of his jeans and braced himself... he was already intimately acquainted with the agony of having duct tape rip your hair out by the roots. But right now he could barely feel anything. "Haha! Cofmortabully lumb!" he chuckled and set the used tape aside, and switched Gashkouri's phone on.

He typed the passcode, got it wrong, swore, tried it again, succeeded. The phone chimed softly.

He was swamped with gratitude. "Gashikouri, you are my new second favorite person. Third … four – okay. Top ten."

He closed his eyes and grew quiet a moment. Tiffany thought he might have gone back to sleep, his head on his knee, his boots still tied together with pink ribbon.

"Who are you gonna call?" Tiffany said.

Rick giggled. "Shhh. Bostgusters." He put his hands over his eyes.

He was standing with Kate, and there was the iSoul murder board screen in front of him (yes, a long time since the first chapter, eh?), his timeline at the bottom, once again disturbingly close to its end. Kate said, "Ignore that. It won't help you right now."

He said, "I don't want to leave you. But it's not safe here... don't come here."

She rolled her eyes. "Wild horses. Now remember, you're calling from an Irish burner phone, and my number is U.S. But it's not my usual number. It's the burner we got when we realized Michael was listening in on our old phones. So you need the new number. And you'll need to dial the country code. And maybe a zero. Try the zero, then try without it." She scrolled through the thousands of numbers Rick had memorized, while the interfaced cooed as sweetly as a dove, its outspread wings sparkling.

"Do it for Tiffany," she said. "Do it for me. For all of us, Rick. You can remember if you focus."

He opened his eyes and stared at the phone. All the numbers were so tiny, and his fingers felt like sausages.

When he tried to focus on her, the first thing in view was her tie-dyed damp T-shirt, stretched over her round breasts. He meant to say her name, but, unfortunately, he said the first word that came to mine. "Titty?"

She glared at him. "NOT okay."

"But they're... You're right, they're not Kate's. Whew. Tinfinny? Oh, god, what did I say?"

"You are an asshole."

"I am a big jackasshole on drugs. Sorry. Truly-really." He looked so embarrassed, she softened a little.

"It's okay." She looked down at her chest. "They're kinda hard to miss."

He said sadly, "I miss Kate." Then his expression brightened. "Did ya know? We're gonna have a baby!"

"Why are you holding the phone?"

He squinted down at it. "Oh, yeah." He tried to stand up and hand it to her, and she stopped him.

"Your feet are tied together."

He looked down at them, perplexed. "How did tha' happen?"

"Aren't you gonna dial 9-1-1?"

"NO!" he said. "Kate. Here." He handed her the phone and closed his eyes, put his hands out as if he was working one of those ATM touch-screens. "Okay. Kate. I need Kate." Tears of frustration started up in his eyes. "I fingers..."

"Shut up!" Tiffany hissed. "I'll dial the number, just tell me what to do."

•  
8:09 a.m., South Dublin

Kate's phone rang. The number was Ireland-based and unfamiliar to her. This time she caught it. "Hello?"

The signal was weak. Rick's voice on the other end was scratchy, but triumphant: "Hi! I'm on drugs again!"


	50. Chapter 50

Holy cow. Outside my window the fireworks show for the local baseball game just went off at the stadium. And then glancing through Twitter, I was introduced to this song, Sufjan Stevens' "Fourth of July".

watch?v=JTeKpWp8Psw

* * *

_The evil it spread like a fever ahead  
It was night when you died, my firefly  
What could I have said to raise you from the dead?  
Oh could I be the sky on the fourth of July?_

* * *

I've experienced this kind of synchronicity with writing before, and it's usually led me to wonderful places. I take it as confirmation I'm on the right track.

* * *

**TooSoon Chapter 50 - Epiphany**

•  
**July 4, 2015, South Dublin, 8:09 a.m., Jackson Hunt's SUV, St. Stephen's Green**

"_Ohgod_." Kate switched her phone to speaker while Hunt continued driving. "Castle! where are you?"

In the back of the SUV, Ryan and Esposito high-fived, their exhaustion replaced with grins of relief.

"The wumbers got all nixed up," Castle giggled. "Say hi, Fiffany."

A young woman's voice, high and nasal, blurted "Hello-my-name-is-TiffanyRoss! I've-been-kidnapped-and-I-think-I'm-in-Ireland..."

"Tiffany! Oh, I'm so glad he found you. Are you okay?"

"No," she whimpered. "They're gonna kill us."

"I won't feel a thing..." Castle sang.

"Well, I will!" Kate snapped. "Castle. _Rick._ Father of my _child_."

That got his attention. He sat up straighter, and his head seemed to clear a little. "Hi, Small. I love you."

"Uh... okay. Rick. How did you get there?"

"I railroad tracksded. But they didn't."

"Tell me more."

He was now speaking in a bad Russian accent. "Even a man who's pure at heart and prayers his... says his prayers at night... may become a woof! (haha!) when the woofbane booms...blooms, and the mooooon..."

"Werewolf?" said Tiffany.

"_Therewolf!_" Rick laughed, then he howled a little, very quietly. "Awooh. Shhhh. Wolfbunny. Bifflehoney."

Kate said, "Rick. Babe, why are you talking about werewolves?"

He spoke with as much care as he could muster. "Larrrrrry Talllllbottttt."

Kate paused. "That ring a bell to anyone?"

Ryan started Goggling. "Original Wolf-man, 1941. Universal Pictures. There are a couple of Talbot streets in Dublin. And a bridge. It's just a couple blocks east of here."

"Was it Talbot Bridge, Rick?"

"Yeah! You're so smart! I love you. I love Ryan too. He's smarter than me, you know? Don't tell him that."

Ryan directed while Jackson drove.

Rick just babbled. "I tagged for you. Labels. Shippy labels. I ship you, Kate. On the phaypone."

"I ship you too, Rick," she said softly. For some reason, she patted her own tummy, as if to comfort the baby who couldn't possibly know what was going on. That was true. Small was sleeping right through this part. Small had had a long night, and no spinach. "Are you saying you stuck a label on the payphone? Like a tagger?"

"Shtickers!" He fist-pumped. "Connection. We still got it."

Tiffany was staring at Rick in confusion, but speaking to Kate over the phone. "You _married_ this guy?"

Kate said, "Yes, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

Tiffany said, "Then you better hurry. Do you know where we're at?"

"No. Castle does, we just have to pry it out of him," Kate frowned. "Rick, do you know the street name?"

He started singing. "...I wanna reach out and touch the flame where the shtreets have no name, ah-haaa, where the streets..."

"SHUT UP AND FOCUS!" Kate yelled.

Rick whimpered, "Okay." His eyes teared up. "You can be sho meeeean."

"But I can be nice too, so nice, and I will be so nice when I find you, right Castle?"

"I could use some ice night about wow. That trick you do with nice cubes?"

"_Rick_. Did you find the bike?"

"Just the frame. _Fame! _I wanna wiv foweverr..."

"Tell me about the street."

"Chaat."

"No. Let's keep talking as long as it's safe."

"Chaaaaaaaat. Houshe. Like tandoori. Only the door's red. Here."

Ryan scrambled through Goggle, looking for a Chaat House in North Dublin. "There's six Chaat restaurants."

"Since 1798!" Rick crowed. He'd seen it on the awning, once long ago before it faded, and then again a few hours ago, barely legible. What order the numbers were in? Up for debate.

"Opened 1978..." Ryan searched, his tongue between his teeth.

Kate said, "So we're looking for a house with a red door, near a Chaat House, with a bike in front."

"You been framed!"

"Just the frame?"

"It's unshpoken," Rick confirmed with a giggle. "Get it? No sphokes. It's a bike. Pun-thing."

"Castle, I need you to think, babe. Do you know the address?"

"Sure!"

"What's the address, Castle?"

"Where?"

"For where you are right now."

He looked at Tiffany. "Where we... Hey, ish dat Tiffany Ross? I found her!"

Kate sighed. "Okay. Rick, do you know the address of where you are right now?"

"Well, why din't you ashk me before?"

Ryan, meantime, was cross-checking Michael's real estate holdings with bike pictures, against the six chaat restaurants in North Dublin. He said, "Hey, Castle, you're near railroad tracks, right?"

Castle grinned. "Choochoo!" Then he added more soberly, "My head hurts and I see dead people."

Esposito was looking over Ryan's shoulder. "Either this one or this one."

Ryan sighed. "Castle, anything else you can tell us?"

"Yeah. I love you, Kate. There's no me without us."

Beckett found herself smiling and crying and annoyed, all at the same time. "Castle. What else can you think of to help us find you?"

He thought hard. "Gashi-kouri. She's okay. She gave me her passo-code. I thought she was tolding a big fib. But no, she's jussa, mixed up shook up girl. She's a good woman, Espotosito."

"Good to know," Esposito said sourly. Beckett, Hunt, and Ryan all turned speculative eyes on him.

Rick said, "Reminds me of Kate, only sort of cuter."

"What?" Kate snapped.

"Well, you get all badassy sometimes." Castle whined, "I need badassy. Tiffany's kinda floppy."

Had he but known, Kate's expression was identical to Tiffany's:_ if looks could kill...  
_  
"Floppy?" Tiffany scowled.

Castle nodded fondly. "Like a soft little puppy."

Kate said, "Okay, Tiffany, we have two possible addresses within a quarter mile of each other. When we're finished, I'll want you to hang up and dial 911."

Rick said, "I miss my badassy KatieBoBatie. Sassy-bobassy-creamybeamybodassy..."

Jackson said, "Nope. 999 in Ireland."

"Hi Daddy!" Rick grinned. He waved at the phone.

Jackson's face went bright red, and he nearly rear-ended a delivery lorry.

"999? Are you sure?" Tiffany said.

Jackson turned right, following the river east. "Yes. Dial 999 and hide the phone. Just leave the connection on and keep talking. Dublin police will be able to triangulate on the signal, and hopefully we'll be able to get you two out of there in one piece."

Rick said. "No. _Two_ pieces. I don't wanna get sewn to anybody."

Kate grimaced and said, "Hang up. Dial 999. Do whatever you can to stay alive till we find you."

Rick said, "I love you guys!"

"Love you too, man," said Esposito gruffly.

Rick said, "Aww, you are so sweet. Bye-bye! Take care! See you soon. Okay, bye!"

* * *

•

**8:16 a.m.**  
Kate's eye caught Rick's tag at the near-end of Talbot bridge, and after they traversed it and continued a couple of blocks, she stopped Hunt. "There's a payphone."

"So?"

"See, that might be another label..." He stopped the SUV, she got out and peered at it. "This is the number he called me from. And here's his tag." She pointed. "That way."

A few moments later, they rounded a curve and passed a woman with long, curly dark hair charging down the street. Beckett was watching for more stickers, Ryan was concentrating on maps, Hunt on the road before him, and it was Esposito who snapped, "Hey. That's Gashkouri! Stop!"

Hunt pulled over in front of her and Gashkouri drew up to a halt, alarmed. Then her anxiety collapsed in relief and she pointed to the road ahead. Esposito jumped out of the SUV, gun drawn. "Where the hell is Castle?"

"I wish I knew. He took off in my brother's van!"

Esposito started to pull out his cuffs. "Ameena Gaskhouri, you are..."

But she just breezed past him and clambered to the far back seat. "Thanks for stopping."

"Wha- Jeezus H Christ, Ameena, I was gonna arrest you."

"Go right ahead, just please wait until we find Rick." She stared anxiously down the road. "This is a worse clusterfuck than I had possibly imagined."

Javi said, "How can it get much worse?" He climbed back into the SUV and twisted back to talk to her.

Gashkouri said, "Halloran's son. The boy who disappeared. Rourke thinks he's in on it."

Kate said, "...And?"

"He cleaned out Halloran's apartment last night and stole my father's goddamn truck."

"So?"

"They found a partial print. This man's a goddamned shadow. His face keeps changing, but he's big and he's mean. He's been involved in rapes, assault, murder... and bombings. We don't know what we're gonna face when we find him."

Beckett said, "Did they check the man's prints against the kid's?"

"Everything about Danny Halloran has disappeared, from his baby pictures and prints, to his pediatric records, to his school records, to his foster child file."

Ryan and Beckett exchanged a worried glance, and Ryan said, "That's too familiar."

Esposito was glowering at Gashkouri. He unbuckled and came to sit next to her. "You used me," he muttered. "There is no goddamn reason to believe a word that you say."

Her dark eyes pleaded, and she spoke low, not wanting the others to hear. "Yes. I did use you, and I am _so_ sorry. I was … ready for the end last night. Of my career, maybe my life. I had to get Rick away from you, and that meant keeping you all out of touch. When I went into your room to take your phone battery, and you awoke and just _smiled_ at me like that..." She reached to touch his hand, but he brushed her gesture away.

"You _knew_ it was wrong."

"Of course I knew it was wrong," she whispered. "I just... I just wanted to be with someone kind. On my last night." She looked around the SUV and said more loudly, "None of this was Javier's fault."

Ryan smirked. "Yeah, some of it kinda was."

Esposito glowered, "Hey. A little support here, bro?" Anyone who knew Esposito well would understand that he was still mad, but would get over it eventually. For Ameena, his bristling demeanor was downright terrifying.

Kate said, "So what kind of van are we looking for?"

Ameena was relieved at the interruption. "A white panel van with a picture of Lord Ganesh the elephant god painted on front, side, and back."

"And what's in it?"

"Possibly Daniel Halloran, with his father's records of twenty years of investigations into serial killings in Europe and the United States. Possibly some weapons and explosives."

"So we need to let Dublin Gardai know they'll need tactical for that." Ryan said.

Kate said, "Check with Rourke first. I want confirmation on her story."

Ryan was already dialing Dublin dispatch. "On it."

* * *

•  
**7:45 a.m. St. Philomena's Trauma Center, South Dublin **  
Rourke was at the hospital with Sergeant Byrne, who had spent much of the night combing through Halloran's car. She'd found little of use and much of garbage. Halloran had had a burner phone hidden under the driver's seat, but it was pass-coded and so far, their local office had been unable to crack it - they hadn't much in the way of resources. Dr. Lundy, one of Halloran's surgery team, had spent the last seven hours on cleaning up the amputation and stabilizing his spine. Now Rourke and Byrne were ganging up on Dr. Lundy, who really just wanted to wash up, have a cup of tea, and go home to fall into bed for the day. He had called in his hospital director, Dr. Sara Ennis, for reinforcements. But she hadn't arrived yet, and he was left to negotiate this malpracticie minefield on his own.

Rourke growled, "Look. Halloran's accessory to two kidnappings, which might turn into a double murder. It's _those_ civil rights that have to be a priority, not _his_. I don't care if you have to shoot him up with PCP and dunk him in ice, I want to talk with him. Now."

Byrne added, "If you want to call your hospital board in for an emergency meeting at..." she looked at her watch. "7:49 a.m., in the _morning_, we'll be happy to have the Agency commissioner talk to them." Rourke took out his phone and started keying in a number. Dr. Lundy paled. He'd already been up all night picking bone fragments out of Halloran's back, and he didn't want his patient to die. But he also didn't want a file with Irish Intelligence, or for his career at this particular hospital to end.

"All right," he snapped. "Halloran's intubated and sleeping now. It'll take an hour to sort him out."

"Make it twenty minutes," said Byrne.

Dr. Lundy turned away and stalked back down the hall, shouting, "I need a nurse and a crash cart, STAT."

* * *

•

**North Dublin, 8:18 a.m: Murphy's Attic**  
Tiffany ended the call with Kate and immediately keyed in 999. When dispatch picked up, she rattled off, "I need help. My name is Tiffany Ross. I'm an American and I've been kidnapped. I'm being held somewhere in, uh, north Dublin?"

"Put it on speaker phone, I wanna say hi!" said Rick.

"Not on your life," she snarled. "Yes, they have another guy here too, his name's Rick Castle."

"Macster of the MacStabbers!" he crowed.

"Yeah, they drugged him," she sighed. "They're planning to kill us, like _soon_. No, this isn't a ransom thing, these people, it's totally creepy, like a death cult or something." She paused and her eyes went wide and anxious. "No, I promise this is not a prank! Please, just, look, just can you trace this signal and find us?" The phone beeped, and Tiffany said, "Oh, migod, the battery..."

Just then they heard footsteps coming slowly up the stairs. Tiffany hurriedly turned down the phone's volume then tucked it under the ghostly angel's satin skirt, and said to Rick, "I'm gonna loop your hands. So he thinks you're tied. Then you can surprise him."

"Surprise? Like a party?"

"No, stupid. Hit him."

"I don't wanna hit anyone," Rick pouted, shifting away from her. "I'm a nice man. _You_ hit him."

Castle was too strong, and she couldn't get him to cooperate, so she said, "Okay. Just pretend then."

"What?"

"That your hands are behind your back." She knelt behind him, trying to position them.

He dodged her efforts, turning toward her. "I don't think they work that way..."

"_Make_ it work." She looked at Rick, wide eyed. "These people scare the shit out of me."

Rick nodded, his eyes childlike and sad. "Me too. I don't know what Kate would do without me." Then he smiled. "I'm sad about giving up bacon, too." He patted her shoulder. "Always liked bacon."

She pursed her lips. "You are _so_ weird."

"We're gonna live till we're 100, but no bacon." He pouted a little. "Can I have a hug?"

"No." She just rolled her eyes, got up and tiptoed quickly over to Ms. Krystow's work station, casting about for anything she might use as a weapon. A box of pins. A seam ripper. She observed, "Hot glue gun's plugged in." She started rummaging in various bins.

Rick had closed his eyes again, and took a long, deep breath, listening to the footsteps coming up the stairs. "I don't want to die here," he said softly. "I don't wanna die ever again. Not without Kate."

From the slow pace, it was probably Murphy. Rick held his breath, focused on it, and Petros whispered, _"Patience."_ He let out his breath for a count of eight, then breathed in again. _"Be ready,"_ Mephistopheles said. _"You might get to kill someone on purpose this time."  
_  
Tiffany stared at him. Maybe he was talking to himself a little. Out loud. That had to look kinda weird. "Shh!" she whispered.

The stairs creaked. The lock twisted and opened. The old man came in, and there was a staccato, brittle crash, then another, and another: Tiffany Ross had been the star pitcher on her junior college women's softball team. She was throwing skulls at Joseph Murphy. If his victims could only have known that he would fall over with a groan, knocked out cold, they would have been very pleased indeed.

Castle smiled at her and gave her a thumb up. "Title Nine for the win."

She said, "Let's get the fuck outta here."

Castle tried to stand up, then looked down at his feet, perplexed. "Huh?"

"Oh, come _on_," she snapped, charging across the room. She had found a craft blade. Rick flinched back, and she slashed at the ribbon around his ankles and attempted to pull him up to a stand. He fell back down on his butt in a helpless heap. His head swam, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

She stared down at him. "Come on, we have to go!"

He said: "Plan B. You get out and I'll... uh... wheww, what's _in_ that stuff?"

She didn't argue. "I'll be back with help." She crawled around on the floor by Murphy, looking for the key he had dropped. The old man was bleeding from the forehead, and didn't move. Grimacing, she picked the key out from among the shards of a busted skull, then left, with the hissing Fabio under her left arm and the craft blade in her right hand, leaving the door closed but unlocked behind her.

* * *

•

**Dublin, 8:21 a.m., Murphy's house, 2****nd**** floor  
**Tiffany padded down the attic stairs, with poor Fabio mewling and struggling the whole time. It would have been easier if she could have gone on her own, but there was no way she was gonna leave her little buddy behind. From her volunteer time at the animal shelter, she knew that the creeps who abuse people for fun think nothing of hurting or killing animals.

She crept to the hallway's end and looked down from the landing. There was a radio playing old folk music, somewhere below on the first floor, off to her left. Before her was a carpeted entryway, leading to a solid wood front door with several locks on it. Back behind the stairs, the lingering odor of bacon and toast wafted from the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled. She listened, but heard nobody moving. Finally she tiptoed down the stairs, ready with the craft knife, although she'd never stabbed anyone before and had no idea how she'd do if she had to fight to get away. She hurried quietly to the door. Its main knob was keyed, and there was no key in that lock. She tried the attic key, but no. That would have been too easy. She stepped sideways left, into the dining room, away from the parlor with its country music and possible occupant. Cringing at the soft scrape of the curtains moving across their rod, she looked out the window.

The window had iron bars. Even if she'd been able to open it, there was no way she could squeeze through. She was facing a narrow street. Across the way was an old house of dark-gray, sooty brick, its windows and door boarded shut, painted over in sloppy mismatched patches of gray to obscure the graffiti that must have lurked underneath. The sky was bright, but white with low mist that hadn't yet burned off. In front of the house, below the window, there was a pointy wrought-iron fence, with a battered bike frame chained to it. She wondered at what Mr. Castle had said: "Unspoken". What was the whole bike thing about anyway? What a _goofball_. She set her knife down on the windowsill and struggled to open the catch with one hand while Fabio tried, again, to get away. The window was double-paned and had been replaced with vinyl sashes sometime within the last few years. Once she had the catch open, fresh sea air flowed in and she almost cried: she hadn't smelled that in weeks, and it was the most awesome smell ever. She opened the window and thought about screaming outside, but there was nobody around, and it would only attract her captors' attention.

She took Fabio by both his shoulders and held his nose up to hers for a kitty-kiss. "You be careful out there, Baby," she whispered. "I'll come find you."

For his part, the cat just looked annoyed, which was only reasonable, considering the utterly reprehensible treatment and lack of food he had endured over the last few days. Tiffany leaned her upper body down through the open window as far as possible, and maneuvered the cat out in the slot between the bars. Fabio jumped somewhat clumsily to the ground below, then looked up at her, then looked around, shrinking as if the sky was about to fall on him. She suddenly realized he'd never been outside alone before, and she felt like a total asshole. The cat took off, slinking fast, and was soon out of sight, hugging the row houses, afraid of the open sky.

Tiffany lowered the window sash without a sound. Before she could turn, a large hand from behind clamped over her face, and another drew her back to smash and brace into a large, strong man. She felt him rubbing against her bottom and recognized Little Patty's deep chuckle, but her body wouldn't fight back. She smelled a sickly-sweet, chemical fume while she gasped for breath. Then everything went dark.

* * *

•

**Dublin, 8:19 a.m., Murphy's attic**

"Oh. Sure. Be that way." Castle lay back on the floor. The rug was pleasantly warm and soft, and the floor had almost stopped moving around on him. He lost track of time. He said to a bunch of dead people, "Bark." This was short for _"The inside of my mouth feels like I ate tree bark."_

Spilled out of a bin marked, "Adult Female", a number of bare skulls stared emptily back at him. He chuckled mirthlessly. "Dry humor." Eventually he stretched out all his limbs, cracking and popping the sore joints, then staggered to his feet. His quadriceps ached from being overstretched, and he rubbed them a little, trying to bring circulation back. Murphy was still on the floor, out cold. Tiffany had hit the old man hard. Rick drank a second cup of water in the bathroom, then stood over the old man, swaying just a little.

_Mephistopheles said, "If you kill him now, you won't have to deal with a trial. It'll be easy. " _

Rick shook his head. "Are you crazy? You shound like Michael." He looked over at the Diorama of Death: Papa, Mama, the little girl, the little boy in leiderhosen, the dog, all dead and dry and bent in their nice Bavarian kitchen with the tole painting on the table legs. "I don't wanna kill anyone."

From underneath the jeweled angel's polyester satin skirt, the 999 dispatcher's tiny, tinny voice said, _"Sir, are you in danger?" _It might have been Rick's imagination, but he didn't tend to hear voices, not like this.

"Oh, hell yeah," Rick chuckled. "These people kill for fun."

_"We've got your location narrowed to a quarter-mile radius." _ The phone bleeped. _"But the signal's very weak." _

"Yeah," Rick sighed. "So am I." He closed his eyes and vaguely heard the phone bleat one last time as the battery died. "Whew. I guesh you _can_ stop the shignal," he slurred.

**Murphy's Attic, 8:22 a.m.**  
_Michael's voice was soothing, so reasonable, a brother doling out wise advice. "Come on, Rick. You can say it was self defense. Everyone will believe you. Just take a ribbon and wrap it around his neck. Or maybe the extension cord there. He probably won't even wake up. That's justice. Maybe even a blessing. He's old and sick and guilty as sin."  
_  
Rick sat up, took a moment to settle his brain, stood and walked gingerly to the craft table. He found a usable length of sturdy grosgrain ribbon - teal with a metallic gold stripe. He muttered aloud to Michael. "You're insane, remember? That's not justice. It's not even a mercy killing. I'm going to his trial, I'm gonna eat popcorn and enjoy every minute of it." He cut a meter length and tied it around Murphy's hands, then, humming to himself, looped the rest of the ribbon into an elaborate bow. He said, "The rabbit goes around the tree and jumps down into the hole." What he didn't realize was that, while the bow was worthy of a 5-year-old's princess tea party, he was still a bit loopy himself. With his hand in a cast, he had gotten the tension wrong and the rabbit was somewhere a long way from Tipperary, possibly wearing a top hat and pedaling a dented bike. Murphy would easily be able to extricate himself from these bonds, and look quite festive in doing so.

"Okay then," Rick mumbled. "By-bye. Swee' dreams." He stood up too fast, dizzy and swaying a little, and opening the door, peered down into the looming dark. "Stop an' Stare."

"_Wait," said Petros. To his surprise, the Angel at the Gate looked rather like Alexis._

Rick said anxiously, "Hey, Pum'kin. You're not supposed to be here. There's crazy people."

_She smiled up at him, looking more like his daughter and less like Saint Peter, yet somehow more angelic, a tiny child. How exactly had that happened? "Stairs, Daddy. You have to be careful. You remember when I was just learning to walk?"_

She'd wanted to do it all by herself, not even wanting to hold his hands. He'd shown her how: scoot down on your butt. With immense care, he now sat down, his feet two steps below on the steep, shallow stairs.

_Alexis now seemed very tall above him, almost like his mother when he was small, her hair glowing. "Yes, Daddy. Just like that. Now take it slowly and try not to make too much noise."_

"Okay, Sweetheart."

He slid his butt forward to land on the next stair down. It feels a lot different if you're a 210-lb man {okay: 220} instead of a 2-year-old, 21-pound toddler in a cushy pullup diaper. But he did it, one bump at a time, in the dark, all the way down to the last three. By the time he got there, his back ached, and he imagined his spine had been compressed down an inch shorter. He looked back up and smiled to himself, knowing he never would have made it down walking. Above him, he heard Murphy stir and moan. No worries. No way the old man would even be able to stand up with bad knees and his hands tied...

He saw Murphy's shadow rising in agonizing slowness, growing against the wall.

•  
**8:18 a.m., St. Philomena's Trauma Center, South Dublin**

Dr. Lundy returned to the waiting room and beckoned Rourke and Byrne to follow him down the hall. "He's awake. We removed the breathing tube. He's very disoriented. Agitated. This is a really bad idea and the records will state that it's against my advisement."

Rourke nodded. "That's fine with me."

They followed Lundy into the hospital room. Halloran looked exactly as you'd expect an old drunk fresh from amputation surgery to look, so I won't bother describing further. His pulse seemed a bit fast, but that made sense: the staff had hopped him up on as much stimulant as they dared without actually sending him into cardiac arrest. There was an oxygen tube in his nostrils, and he was on a drip for pain. Dr. Lundy fully expected the patient to crash and bleed out internally, and there was a nurse standing by... as much to act as witness as medical assistance.

Dr. Lundy awoke the patient, who looked around blearily.

"I'm still here." John Halloran sounded disappointed.

Rourke held out the phone. "This is yours."

Halloran stared at him. "What?" His voice was raw from intubation.

"This phone. It's yours. What's the pass-code?"

"Fuck you." Halloran looked away.

"You kidnapped Katherine Beckett Castle. You were working with Michael McGowran and Rose O'Shaunessy."

"Bloody hell, is that what you think?"

"Who else is working with them?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I think it was your son. Daniel."

Halloran's breathing hitched. "Danny's dead." He closed his eyes.

"_Bullshit_." Rourke pinched Halloran's breathing tube, and the patient's eyes flew open. "Now tell me the pass-code to the phone or I'll shut your fuckin' morphine drip off, too."

Lundy surged forward. "Now wait just a mi-"

Sergeant Byrne stopped him. "This is police business and I'd like to remind you that there is more than one life at stake here." The woman had single-handedly broken up rugby brawls. This was nothing to her.

Rourke added, "You think you can stop Danny, after all he's done? He broke into your bedsitter last night. All your evidence, your paper trail, everything you've worked for is gone."

Halloran turned his face away to hide his frustration. "How do you know?"

Rourke embellished the truth a little. "Because we have Danny in custody. But he's not talking. And I want to catch the bastards he's been workin' with before they kill Kate Beckett, and their phone number is on the goddamn burner phone they gave you."

Halloran looked at him, puzzled. "Beckett was in the car with me."

Rourke nodded. "Yeh, till Ameena Gashkouri caught up to the crash and took off with her. Now I know she's workin' with you lot, too."

Halloran's heartbeat skipped, then increased. The nurse felt bad for Halloran, because she didn't understand that he really was an asshole, no matter what his intentions were in the realm of cold-case solving.

Rourke pressed. "So where is Gashkouri takin' Mrs. Castle?"

"You work with the little Pakki bitch. You should-" Rourke pinched the breathing tube again. Halloran's nostrils sucked at nothing, and he snorted, desperate. The nurse made a little whimper, even though he sort of deserved it. She was liking him less by the second.

Rourke gritted, "I know Gashkouri's desperate for information, just like you. I know she's lost someone, just like you. I know they're pitting us all against each other, just because they can. Doesn't that piss you off?"

Halloran looked too scared – and with good reason - to be pissed off. His heartbeat raced, and Dr. Lundy said, "That's enough!"

Rourke let go the oxygen tube. "Now you tell me. One more time, or I will put your lad Danny in hospital with you: What is the pass-code to the phone, and where is Katherine Castle?"

"43210," gasped Halloran.

Byrne typed it in, and the phone chimed awake. She took a look at it. "Ah, shite," she murmured. Rourke stood at her shoulder, and moved his hand so he could focus on the screen. The phone had received calls from thirty-five different numbers, from fourteen different areas and country codes, three continents, over the last three years.

Halloran choked, "_They_ call _me_. Give me leads. Send me photos."

Lundy was working at the med drip, adjusting the dosage. Halloran seemed to be slightly more lucid. "Sometimes the leads are fakes, dead ends. All untraceable. Sometimes they're real tips for real murders. If I report them all, I'm an obsessed crank. If I don't report any of them, I'm an accessory. They make me sort it out."

Rourke glanced over at the patient with something like pity. "You're like a bug on a pin."

"Yeh."

He spoke to Byrne. "Run those numbers to Central and suss out any pops in the greater Dublin area."

"On it." She did some captures and sent them to Central Dispatch, who had their hands full with some American nut talking to himself about … well, they weren't exactly sure what he was talking about, but the girl had said something about death cults then she'd gone off somewhere. They'd been close to getting a location when the line went dead, and they were in the process of figuring out where to dispatch patrol cars. Plus there was some eejit walking his dog on the DART tracks. Hell of a morning.

•

**8:24 a.m., Murphy's House, 2nd Floor  
**

_At the bottom of the attic stairs, Alexis turned to Rick and whispered, "Go, Daddy! Be quiet. Like hide and seek. Don't be scared." _

Rick nodded, opened the door silently and closed it behind him. Of course Tiffany had taken the key, so he couldn't lock it. There was nothing in the empty hallway to brace the door closed.

He tiptoed down the hall, using the wall to hold himself upright, fighting panic at the sound of the old man lurching like a heavy, slow zombie down the stairs after him. It would have been funny if Rick hadn't been woozy on drugs and scared half out of his mind.

_Petros was standing at the end of the hall. "Hide," he said. "You won't make it to the stairs before he comes out."_

_The first two doors he checked were locked. Mephistopheles chuckled behind him. "You probably won't make it to the stairs at all." _

As the attic door opened, Rick dodged into a pitch-black room and shut the door quick and soft behind him, then turned the button to lock it. He stood behind the door, dizzy from holding his breath, his hands balled into fists, waiting to fall over with extreme prejudice on whomever might come in.

Through the door, Rick heard Murphy slurring, "Where the hell are you?" The old Irishman knocked on the door and tried the knob. "Greta. You in there?"

In the dark, behind Castle, Greta's voice croaked out, "I'm napping, Murphy. Wake me when you've cleaned your mess up."

Castle froze, the blood in his veins turned to ice-water, or maybe glitter glue.

Murphy said, "They're both gone. She hit me with one of your goddamn skulls."

Greta said, "Serves you right, you old Sauhund. Are you dyin'?"

"Not much. Just pissed off. I don't know where the hell they went. " Truth was, Murphy was a bit scared. He'd lain there with his eyes closed, pretending to be unconscious, listening to Michael McGowran and Richard Castle debating on whether or not they should kill him. He'd waited until they left the attic before he dared to come down. He was surprised that Castle had stood up to Michael. _Nobody_ stood up to Michael... not even Little Patty. Michael was wicked-fast, and mean as a snake under that kindly veneer.

"They won't get far. Just watch your back."

Rick just stood there, afraid to move. Maybe Greta had been asleep when he came in. Maybe she didn't know he was there.

"I'm goin' down the kitchen to see if Patty's got them," Murphy said. He shuffled away.

Greta switched on the light, and Rick suddenly realized that he'd been holding his breath ever since he came into the room. Now, as he suppressed a scream and staggered back against the wall, the smell hit him full-on.

The room was double-sized, and had once been divided by a pocket door. Greta's bed was fairly near to the entry door, and then there was an old mahogany dresser. Beyond that, spread a scene reminiscent of a horrific Christmas card: taxidermied bodies, bejeweled as the angel in the attic, arranged as the holy family in the stable. The corpses were held upright on stands, posed in worship and Epiphanic joy. Dead Mary, dead Joseph, three dead wise men with crazy beards, in jeweled crowns and turbans and particolored robes, two sheep (they had a lot of wool, so they actually looked all right) and a calf and a dog and a goat. A dead, winged child – maybe seven years old - posed as an angel hanging from the ceiling, the halo made from a daisy-petal veggie steamer studded with yellow and white plastic rhinestones, a few white LED rice lights poking through the holes for effect. Somehow worst of all, a twisted-looking donkey, its head upraised and yellow teeth bared, made a joyful and silent bray of deathly praise unto the Lord On High. The donkey looked so... happy. And at the center of it all, the object of dead, worshipful marble or plastic gazes, was Greta's approximation of Baby Jesus. He was so small, Rick thankfully couldn't see the face... a tiny, mummified baby, swaddled in blue polyester satin and coated with glitter, ensconced in a bright-green tuft of plastic Easter grass.

Oh, and there was also a cheerful cut-paper Christmas star. And Christmas lights. Because Greta Schirrmacher Kristow liked things festive.

•  
**8:25 a.m., North Dublin Rail Tracks Eastbound**  
Matt was just about on his last legs. "Look, Betsy," he said. "Can we just..." but the Sultan of Sniff kept going, her tail a happy metronome as her ears and nose collected Rick's steadily dwindling scent off the metal rail. They came, finally, to a street-level intersection with safety gates at either side to prevent cross traffic going through. After they crossed the street, Betsy stopped a moment, then turned in a circle. She went further up the railroad tracks by perhaps twenty paces, then stopped, snuffling around in the gravel.

_Finally_. Betsy gave a happy snort. Her nose and ears and paws were damn sick of those rails. They were hard, cold, and stank because some people just insist on either peeing on railroad tracks, or being run over by trains, and the smell... well, it lingers. She towed Matt away from the tracks, and they returned to the street. She started heading north on the sidewalk and stopped at the railway gate. Rick had stood there, and had stuck a shipping label on the gate post. She couldn't read the letters, of course, but she read the smell just fine: Pillow Case Rick Loves Pillow Case Kate.

_"Aww, you crazy kids,"_ Betsy whined.

Matt scanned the label, inscribed in black marker:

"RC + KB  
7/4/15  
^

Betsy didn't know what the writing said, but Matt did the dance of "Whooey, finally something goes right!" and ruffled her ears. She just sat there panting. Having found something concrete, she suddenly realized that she was a Very Dog-Tired Girl. All she wanted was to bring Mo his newspaper and fall asleep on his feet. But she was looking for Pillow Case Rick, and looking for Tiffany, and there is no rest for a weary, duty-bound hound dog girl, no matter how good she is, or whether she has endured the trauma of a helicopter ride and no treats in an hour. No matter if her paws are sore or her tail is tired. She just keeps going, right? But her bottom sat itself down, uncooperative.

Matt took a look at her. "Hey, Sweetie," he said. "Let's get you some breakfast." He tugged on her leash. "Treats? Food? Breakfast?" He spoke a little Arabic from his tour in Iraq. Maybe Mo spoke Arabic at home sometimes. "Sabbara?"

Betsy roused herself and did the _Dance of "Oh, Yes, I am So VERY STARVING." _They continued following Rick's trail and Matt stopped her at a little grocery. He stepped in. "Hey, do you carry dog food?"

The owner pointed down an aisle, and Matt and Betsy picked out a nice can for her. He pulled out his wallet and set down the money, and said, "Is there a way I can get her a bowl of water somehow? She's been working all night, and she's pretty tired out."

The owner, a friendly-looking man in his forties, grinned. "She's so droopy lookin', how d'you tell?"

Matt shrugged. "We've been through a lot together." The owner lent him him a can opener and a couple of bowls from his back room, and Betsy downed everything within about a minute. Meantime, Matt drank a pint of truly appalling coffee with milk and four sugars, and ate a pre-packaged cheese Danish and a dented Red Delicious apple, because his wife always worried when he didn't get enough fiber. Betsy started sniffing around in a slightly different way, and Matt said, "Hey, I – uh, I think I'll need a plastic bag."

"We have 'em for sale," said the owner helpfully. "Cant give 'em out anymore. Government thing."

"Oh. Yeah." Matt bought some small bags and they took their leave, having just missed Hunt's SUV as it roared through the intersection, looking for a chaat house a quarter mile away.  
•

**8:26 a.m., Greta Schirrmacher Kristow's Bedrooom, Murphy's House**

Castle backed up toward the door, and Greta held up a warning hand. "Wait until he is downstairs with Little Patty," she said. "My friends will keep you safe here." She gestured at the Holy Zombie Convention.

Greta swung her stiff legs out of bed, and stood, stretching. She was wearing a demure Swiss flannel nightie with hearts all over it, her ankles and feet swollen beneath its white eyelet hem. She had left someone... no, some_thing _in the bed, waiting for her. Rick couldn't take his eyes off the dark, wrinkled, faceless shape on the pillow.

Greta smiled with shy pride. "I call him Arne. He keeps me company. Like a body pillow," she said. "I tried different faces, but they were all just a little disturbing. Perhaps a silicone mask will be just the right approach." She was walking toward Rick slowly, and he was unable to move a muscle, gasping for breath. She reached up and glided a hand along his jaw. "Art offers a kind of immortality, you know."

"Yeah, I'd, uh, be surprised just to get through today," he squeaked. "That pillow's... amazing. Can I see it?" He dodged past her, toward the bed, and quavered, "Hey there, Arne."

Arne was a boneless thing. He was assembled from the patchwork skin of a man – no, more than one man – tanned in slightly mismatched shades of brown, and sewn and stuffed into an approximation of a manly form, topped with a mane of shaggy dark-brown hair. He'd been under the covers with Greta, but exposed when she pulled the duvet down to emerge from bed. Castle was relieved to see that Arne was at the time wearing modest sleep shorts and a pocket T-shirt, and he averted his eyes from what he hoped was a sex toy half-hidden among the exposed sheets. The front of Arne's head was stitched from a large, smooth piece of skin. His simple face was drawn on with a black marker: sleeping eyes, a faint smile, just a little u-shape for the nose. "Did you use the back or the thigh?"

Greta smiled. "Very good! The inner thigh. The skin is so smooth and thin."

"And I see you like long hair."

"I was in my prime in the early 60's. It was all the rage back then."

Rick nodded. Like smelling salts, the jolt of disgust had cleared the last druggy cobwebs from his mind. He said, "Why this?"

Greta shrugged. "Murphy is not an affectionate man. I just... wanted someone to hold me."

"I see."

"Are you surprised?"

"Not any more." He almost ran a hand over his face then realized he had touched the doorknob and God only knew where Greta's hands had been. _(Mental note: wash face.)_ He put a reluctant arm across her rounded shoulders and patted her gingerly. "Now, how do we get out of this alive?"

She shrugged. "I do not know. You are the novelist."

He thought a moment. "What was their contingency plan for today?"

"I hear better than they know," she winked. "Michael likes me. He thinks I'm a 'funny old bird.' He likes my art. Says it's … what's the word he uses?"

"Eccentric?" Rick ventured.

"_Lyrical_," she corrected. "And he likes old ladies, as long as we are kind to him. Although, you know, I am only sixty-four." Greta's expression darkened. "Murphy thought he heard Michael's voice, but did you?"

Rick shook his head anxiously. "Maybe Murphy was dreaming."

"Michael, he may not come today. And if he does not, it means the end for us."

"Which us?"

"They will leave me here. Burn the house down with... everything." She gestured to her macabre Christmas tableau.

Castle said, "Why don't you get out? Turn them in?"

She shrugged. "They are criminals. I am complicit. I know this. I have no wish to go to prison. To be taken from everyone I love." She glanced over at her bed, at her Holy Family of Horror. "The Saints tell me it is not such a bad thing to die. All will be forgiven."

_Oh. This woman has taken up permanent residency at the CrazyTown Memorial Chapel._ Rick narrowed his eyes. "Where does John Halloran fit?"

"He was Patty's father, but not a good one. He crossed us, long ago. So we took Patty and made him one of us. They will frame Halloran for the whole thing."

Rick couldn't even get his head around that, just staring at Greta in perplexity.

She said, "He got too close, investigating the airport murders. Michael and Rose killed his wife to punish him. It was a warning. They had the fun of killing her and destroyed his career. It was Rose's idea."

"Two birds with one stone." Typical. "And then they stole the boy away."

"Yes. She forged him like a knife. He would do anything for that conniving Schlampe."

Rick nodded. "He would have killed me if I you hadn't dosed me."

"Yes. They still intend to kill you, Tiffany, and Mrs. Castle, whether or not Michael shows up. Michael only changes the '_how_' of it. He likes it slow. That one woman, poor thing..." she glanced over at her Mary and grimaced. "He took _days_ with her. And then they will do their butchery, and blow the house down with us and Halloran in it."

"Wait. Do you mean 'blow the house up' or 'burn the house down'?"

She frowned, confused. "Is there a difference?"

They heard the two men thumping around downstairs, and Murphy yelling, "Well, if Castle's not with you and he's not with me, then where the hell is he?"

Castle said, "Hold that thought!" and hurried to the bedroom door. It was locked, and he panicked a second, then remembered he himself had locked it, and tripped the button. Greta tried to stop him. "No. You're mine. You can't leave me. It's too late for Tiffany."

Rick peeled her claw off his bicep and pushed her back, not too gently. "You just stay here and pray. And if you have any common decency left, call the police and get us out of this mess." He vaguely remembered something about Tiffany sticking a phone under the angel's dress, but he'd forgotten why.

Greta's face went hard. "No police. You promised I could continue my work."

"What, you expect me to kill them and save the day for you?"

"That is the game, Mr. Castle." She smiled widely, and her yellow dentures slipped a little. "Last man standing."

His arm swept around to the Creche. "_They're_ still standing, and they're dead."

He hurried over to the donkey, and despite Greta's feeble protests, snapped its skull off the wooden neck frame, tore back the paper-thin, musty hide, and unhooked the wire that held its jawbone in place. Its glass-marble eyes fell to the floor, thudding tiny puffs of dust out of the carpet.

Greta held the donkey's cranium, moaning, "Oh, God, my poor little Esel!" She glared at Castle. "How could you!"

Clutching the jawbone like a club, he grinned at her. "Poetic, huh?" He waggled his eyebrows and, striding out of the dark and stinking room, slammed the door behind him.

Greta staggered back, hand over her mouth, holding in sobs. She crawled back into bed cradling the donkey skull, and hid under the covers with Arne's leathery arm around her torso. She sniffled, "I thought he understood. Nobody understands. Nobody."

Arne didn't understand either, and if he had any reply at all, it was her imagination. His lips were sealed.

**8:28 a.m., Murphy's house, first floor. **  
Murphy stopped at the sink and pressed a wet paper towel to his forehead, staining it pink from Tiffany's skull barrage. Little Patty was just coming up from the basement. He was wearing a white clean-suit, wiping his hands.

"She's out and strapped," he said to Murphy. "I shaved her."

"Oh, hell. Not her head."

"No, I saved that in case McGowran shows up, which I doubt. But I put a shower cap on. Don't want hair getting in the meat."

Murphy said, "What, McGowran's not here?"

"No."

"But I heard him in the attic. Talking with Castle."

Little Patty snickered, but his eyes darted around uneasily. "You're daft."

Murphy yelled, "Well, if Castle's not with you and he's not with me, then where the hell is he?"

"Ah, he's probably trying to come up with some sort of escape plan. But we're the only ones with keys, and those locks are a bitch. We'll just let him spin his wheels a bit."

Murphy pressed down on his forehead, where a bone fragment had scraped him. "Yeh, he's probably too drugged out to care anyway. Probably nappin' in a closet somewhere." But he looked at Little Patty with growing suspicion. Had he let McGowran in and not told him so, and in that case, was McGowran planning to be the last man standing today?

"Castle!" he shouted out. "Where you got to, you eejit?"

There was a thud from the staircase, and Richard Castle came tumbling down the last three stairs, rolled on the foyer floor, and sat up with something like a girlish squeal. "Ooh, I fell on my ass!" he laughed. With effort he sat up and pulled the donkey's broken jawbone out from underneath himself. "Whew. I dunno what you put in that syringe man, but ... ha. I am _trippin_'."

* * *

**Part 1 of 4. I just split it up because it was going so long. It's written, but editing all these pieces together in a sequence that makes sense is a real challenge. Thanks for your patience!  
**


	51. Chapter 51

My darling readers: Thank you for the persistent urging. Your enthusiasm &amp; support (&amp; occasional "wtf?" help more than you can ever know. But one can't push a river, especially if it's made of poo and your hero is up to his ankles in it. One does, however, have to actually jump in the canoe and keep paddling. To mix my metaphors further in midstream than ever before, I found as my climax built (yay!) that the simple movie playing in my head, with so many characters participating, became really hard to keep organized in a way that would make sense to anyone but me (and in some places I may have failed – ETERNAL VIGILANCE, DEAR REDERS!

I felt I'd rather do it right, and break it up into parts, than throw out one long chapter that was a mess. So I deeply appreciate your patience, and as a reward, I'm posting a virtual torrent of tasty chapters ALL AT ONCE so you can read them at your leisure, possibly bleaching your brain in between, with certain hope that this story really, truly is coming to an end, because I've already written it. It's the editing that's a bitch.

One thing I should reassure you about: like Rick Castle, I never got over Old Yeller. There are things I can't bring myself to write about directly. So if tenderhearted people want to go back and read about what happened to Murphy when he was a little boy, everything is implied, but nothing too intense is stated flat out.

JodiC, thanks for fine-turning my German pejoratives. And thank you to EVERYONE who has followed this story's labyrinthine path.

I said labyrinthine. I am so sexy.

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 51 – Epiphany Part 2**

Sometime in the mid- 1980s, North Dublin, Murphy's House

When Michael McGowran had the old squat house gutted and remodeled, he blew the budget in terms of privacy, warmth, and quiet. The windows were double-paned and insulated with argon gas between. There was double insulation between all the rooms, and on the outside walls, which were of course brick. He replaced the moldy old lathe-and-plaster with modern wallboard. There was even insulation between ceiling and floorboard, between pipes and housing for heat and water. It was the same in his own mansion, the one where he had lived with Rose O'Shaunessy and Danny Halloran. He liked control, and having been raised in flophouses, homeless shelters, and group homes, he liked privacy, quiet, doors that lock . So one might hear not a peep from someone being eviscerated or flayed in the very next room, unless one happened to have a cam feed, in which case, one had access to everything. He liked that system. So much easier to keep things contained.

But of course, this insulation had its drawbacks. Once Greta had fallen in the shower and lain there for forty minutes, yelling, before Murphy heard her and helped her up.

And this time, when Castle and Tiffany were somewhat noisily on the phone and plotting their escape, Murphy had been too busy noodling around the chord progression for "I Wanna Be Sedated" to notice. He had only gone upstairs to check on them when he glanced on Tiffany's cam feed and noticed she wasn't tied down anymore. No system is perfect. This becomes most apparent when people start throwing things at you.

* * *

**8:28 a.m., North Dublin, outside the Chaat house.**  
Hunt's SUV pulled up by the chaat house, one door down from the corner. The little street's end was hidden beyond a curve.

Ryan and Esposito were looking at the map. "Okay," Ryan said. "This is a dead end at the railroad tracks, and it's not on Goggle Street View." They looked around at the intersection. "No obvious cameras. With luck, they won't be patched in."

Esposito said, "Just in case, we should check those cams showing intersections."

"Good plan." Ryan opened up the Tiger folder and began that task. Kate got out and stood on the sidewalk in front of the Indian restaurant. She could smell something spicy cooking, and she felt dizzy with hunger. She leaned back into the SUV's front seat and spoke to Hunt. "What's behind this block?"

"Another row of houses." Hunt pointed at the Goggle satellite view on the map. "An alley here. You can see by its shadow, there might be a gate of some type. Wow, look at the backyard."

Esposito grimaced. "It's worse than my living room."

"You live in a studio," Kate said.

"Yeah, well..." Esposito blushed. "Okay, it's worse than my entire apartment...

Ryan said, "You okay, Beckett?"

"I'm, uh..." Kate leaned against the doorframe, her face pasty. "I think I need some water."

Ryan was staring at her, concerned. "You need more than water."

Hunt rolled his eyes and huffed. "_Women_."

Gashkouri glared bloody murder at him, and climbing out of the SUV, stepped over to tap on the glass front door of the chaat house. A dark-eyed woman in her early twenties came to the window, peered out, and shook her head with polite regret, pointing to the sign:

"**Welcome to Rajawat's Chaat House  
Since 1978!  
Hours: 11 a.m. To 10 pm Daily." **

Gashkouri flashed her badge, and the girl visibly quailed and opened up.

* * *

**8:30 a.m., Rajawat's Chaat House, North Dublin**  
Ghashkouri spoke a few quick words to the waitress in Hindi, and the young woman backed away from the door, beckoning them in. She was wearing jeans and a fake-vintage Def Leppard T-shirt, and her nose was pierced with a tiny silver skull.

Kate dashed into the bathroom, and emerged a few minutes later looking a great deal happier than she'd gone in. Meanwhile Gashkouri ordered. "May we please have tea, pakoras, and naan for everyone. To start." She looked around at her companions. "Breakfast is on me."

Esposito said huffily, "That seems fair."

The young waitress assumed they had been up all night, which was pretty astute, although she knew better than to insult them by reminding them they all looked like death warmed over. She introduced herself to the team as "Yasha, and I'll be your waitress this _evening..._" with a sarcastic smirk, But she had a plate of warm naan bread on the table the moment Kate sat down. It smelled divine.

Kate wanted to cry. _Damn hormones! _"Thank you so much," she murmured.

Under her black lipstick, Yasha's mouth stretched into a gorgeous smile. She brought a tray with a large Thermos pump-pot, and cups for chai with milk, sugar, and warming spices. It had been a cold and miserable morning for all of them, and the team huddled quietly a moment, sipping and inhaling the exotic yet somehow homey warmth in weary appreciation. It wasn't coffee, but when in Ireland, do as the immigrants do, because seriously, folks, the coffee in Ireland makes the 12th Precinct's battery acid taste like mother's milk. Yasha went back behind the counter, tossing pakoras into the deep-fryer.

Kate looked up at the menu on the wall. She couldn't even read it, but there were pictures. Apparently Rajawat's served sit-down dishes as well as the street/ finger food known as chaat. "Gashkouri, is that stuff on the left some kind of spinach thing?

"Yes, it's aloo palak. That's a Punjabi specialty, I think. But for _breakfast_?..."

Kate stared in longing at the washed-out photo menu. "Do you think..."

"We can ask. Not too spicy?"

Kate nodded. "Easy garlic." Gashkouri flagged Yasha down, they talked for several more moments, the girl called for reinforcements (the restaurant was downstairs of her family's home on the second floor) and in about five minutes, the kitchen was a whirl of activity, a bit too much smoke, and the aroma of sizzling onions.

Yasha's mother, Mrs. Rajawat, took one look at Kate and whipped up a family specialty, off- menu: a spinach-cheese omelette: barely spiced, not greasy, just lightly laced with ginger, salt, nutmeg and pepper. Perfect. Kate wolfed it down. She felt guilty taking this time, but they were all tired and worried. They needed to regroup anyway, and it wouldn't do for her to pass out in the middle of a police action. Mrs. Rajawat regarded her with a beatific grin and high-fived her daughter.

* * *

**8:30 a.m., Murphy's House, First Floor**  
Being the son of the great Martha Rodgers, Castle knew how to make an entrance. Clutching the jawbone of an ass and grinning to himself (because "Holy hell, what else can I do?") he struggled to stand, then sat on the floor again. He smirked up at Murphy and Little Patty as they hurried out of the kitchen.

"Hey," Rick slurred. "You're really tall." The jawbone had split in half at the chin, and he fussed around with it for a moment, trying to fit it back together, then shrugged and left it alone. "This ish quite the house of horrors."

The two other men stared at Castle, confused by his cavalier manner.

"Shorry about your nose, Mr...?"

"You can call me Patty."

Castle pointed upstairs, vaguely indicating Greta's lair. "I was talking to the ol' lady." In a stage whisper, he announced, as if it were news, "She's _nuts_."

Murphy and Little Patty exchanged a slow, malevolent grin. Although he'd awoken from Greta's pinprick earlier than they expected, Castle was still under its influence. Murphy said, "Eh, that's true, but she's useful in her way. And Michael likes her."

Rick said, "Sho, what'sh the contingenshy plan? Ish Michael comin'?"

Murphy just peered at Rick, saying nothing, keeping his distance. Patty said, "We thought you knew."

Rick said, "I heard he was supposed ta come at evel... eleven. He's gonna off the little chickie-girl, 3kecksay... 3XK style. But I dunno. Mighta mished his flight."

"Yeh," Murphy said. "But he's not all we're waitin' for."

"How sho?" Rick was poking dreamily at knots in the floor's woodgrain, and murmured, "They look like little eyes."

"Oh, John Halloran. You've met him?"

Rick had to be careful there. He didn't remember much of what happened between the time Greta poked him and the time he scooted down to the bottom of the attic stairs. Had he said anything...? He didn't know. "Yeah. We saw Halloran, uh, the day before yeshterday? No, yesterday." He frowned. Everything had run together yet stretched out, endlessly. He was having trouble keeping track of time. He rose clumsily to his feet and stretched, and noticing that his cast had a hairline crack running along one seam. So much for nanocarbon. "Sorry. Jet-lag. He met with us at Huntsman's Arms, down by Wicklow." He wobbled into the kitchen nonchalantly, and the killers followed him like puppies. Like jackal puppies hoping for regurgitated carrion.

•

* * *

**8:37 a.m., Chaat house, North Dublin**

Gashkouri felt her phone (not the burner, the personal one) buzzing in her pocket and answered it. "Zameer. Did you find the truck?"

"Yeah. Castle even left me key in it."

"Oh, God. Was it stripped bare?"

"No, no, it was in the DART carpark. They've got cams. Decent of him. Where are ya?"

"You know the chaat house off 138, north?"

"Oh, yeh. Their pakoras are the best, and that little waitress..."

"Shut up and get over here."

"You heard from Da?"

Ameena sighed. "No. I don't think he wants to talk to me."

"Well, I dunno, 'Meena. They might only have given him the one phone call."

"Ah, hell. He's done nothin' except get his own truck stolen."

"Yeh. Both trucks in twelve hours. What are the chances?"

"For all I know they planned it that way. Just hang onto the goddamn keys," she said. "Hurry up."

* * *

**8:39 a.m., Murphy's Kitchen**

Patty seemed nervous about John Halloran's doings. "What did he tell you?"

Rick had to really think about it. "No' much. He'd invet...stigated some of the ol' Shawn O'Johnessy... John O'Shaunessy kills, but never pinned anything on him. Michael 'n' Rosie danced circles around him, too."

Little Patty expressed dull disgust. "That's because Halloran's a feckin' stupid bastard."

Rick stared hard at Patty. He had no idea of the lost boy's name, but he remembered Greta's words. There was indeed something in Patty's stance, in the way he held his powerful shoulders and thrust out his jaw. Beaming widely, as if terribly proud of a deductive realization, Castle crowed, "Halloran's your DAD?"

Patty glowered, his handsome face twisted. "Huh. That's a laugh. Fucker killed his own wife. Blamed it on 'serial killers,'" he snorted. "He wasn't a father. He was a fuckin' sperm donor."

Before meeting Jackson Hunt, Rick had sometimes harbored anger against his own absent father, and he still had some abandonment issues, but nothing like this murderous rage. He sobered a little and nodded. "Ain't that the truth."

Murphy's concertina was sitting on the table, next to a congealed plate of … blood pudding? … and … maybe it really was bacon, but Castle wasn't about to find out. "I'm just gonna wash my hands." Staggering past Little Patty, RIck dropped the jawbones on the kitchen table and went to the sink. "And my face." He wanted to take a shower. In bleach.

Murphy sat down to rest his legs, playing "Danny Boy" with consummate skill. He smirked. "Soothin' the savage beast, here." He played a few more bars and added, "Halloran's easy to manipulate, but resourceful." He watched for Castle's reaction carefully as he said, "You know he's got your wife, right?"

Rick's mouth went dry. "Which one?" He felt sudden confusion: Kate had been kidnapped by Halloran, and they'd rescued her, right? Yes. They'd made love under a tree afterwards, only last night, before he had flown away in a helicopter like a _complete and utter moron. _But John Halloran wasn't a threat. He was fighting for his life after the accident – if he wasn't dead already. "Wait. Is Halloran in New York?"

Patty said, "She followed you to Ireland. He caught her in the hotel. Didn't you see her?"

"Seriously!" Castle sighed, then hid his eyes in his hands. "I can't shake that woman, she's like a goddamn lamprey."

Neither of the others knew what a lamprey was, but they got the gist. Murphy said, "Does she suspect you killed the other girls?"

Rick made a comically nasty face. "Believe me, she knows exactly what I did. She's big on _justice_." He made the air-quote sign and then looked around apprehensively, as if Beckett would come bursting through the front door any moment. "Halloran's supposed to bring her _here?_"

Patty snickered. "Well, we've led him a merry chase goin' on, what, seven years now? He has a hell of a time with all the clues, but we figure your SuperCopGirl will help him out. She's smart."

"Beckett was shtupid to follow me here. She's out of her jurisdiction, and she doesn't know the turf," Castle grumbled. "She's got no backup, no way to contact Ryan or Esposito or Hunt."

"How so?"

"We all got burners for the trip. They woont... wooden... would not know she's missing. They're inconavocado. Muni...cado. "

"And you got away from them."

Rick nodded and giggled a little. "Poor ol' Gashikori. Thought _she_ was kidnapping _me!_"

"Where is Gashkouri?"

"Aw, I dunno. I tased her"

"Taser?"

Rick nodded. "I nabbed one from the glove box in her brother's van."

Murphy laughed his head off, choked a little and took a sip of his tea. Then he scowled – it had gone stone cold.

* * *

•  
**8:45 a.m., Chaat House**  
Beckett's team figured out their logistics, eating just enough aloo tikkil and pakoras to fuel themselves without being weighed down. Kate was halfway through her omelette when her phone rang. She checked the caller ID and clued the others in. "Hello, Sergeant Byrne. Got anything?"

Margaret Byrne was in the waiting room at the hospital. "John Halloran's awake, and he's cooperating. More or less. Ehm, is Agent Gashkouri with you by any chance?"

"We just caught up with her. She's uh... It's problematic. She admitted to taking off with Castle last night. He got away from her somehow, but now she's trying to help us find him. I guess these SOB's screwed around with her family?"

Kate flashed Gashkouri a glare that spoke plainly: '_If you have lied to us again, you are a dead woman.'_

Byrne confirmed,"Gashkouri's mother disappeared in the summer of 1995. Everyone dismissed it as a runaway domestic situation, but Halloran received a tip that Mrs. Gashkouri was murdered. Unfortunately his department felt it was a closed case, and there was pressure to keep it under wraps to avoid panic during tourist season. Then when he tried to dig deeper, Halloran's own wife was murdered. He had an alibi, and another man took the fall for the crime."

Kate's eyes went wide as she listened to Byrne's explanation, pretty much ignoring the intel about Halloran. She stared at Ameena's stricken face. "_How _old were you?"

Ryan and Esposito recognized the look; Kate was now firmly behind Gashkouri, whether or not the Agent was actually trustworthy. Despite her cynicism, Kate had a streak of white-knight to her.

•

* * *

Hunt got up and took a break. He had no patience for sentimentality unless it was about his own family. He thought about his errand to the drug store that nearly got them all killed.

In the bathroom, he looked at his haggard old face in the scratched mirror and thought, "Ginger ale and a pregnancy test. So worth it."

•

* * *

Ameena's voice was low. "I was twelve."

Kate was speaking to all of them, and Byrne over the phone, at the same time. "I can understand a certain lapse in Agent Gashkouri's judgment under the circumstances. Yes. Anything we can, within reason."

While Gashkouri's heart thundered in her ears. Kate listened to Byrne's response and relayed the message: "Byrne tells me that if you haven't turned in your gun and badge, Rourke wants you to wait till the end of the day."

Ameena nodded, blinking back tears of relief. "I'm at the Agency's disposal," she said.

Kate spoke to Byrne again. "So does Halloran have any intel we can actually use to find Castle?"

"No, he's pretty clueless. He'd been hoping you knew. But we may be able to buy Mr. Castle some time. Expect a call from Rourke, he'll fill you in."

* * *

**8:47 a.m., St. Philomena's Trauma Center, South Dublin**  
Rourke had coached Halloran under threat of severe 02 deprivation. Central had come back with four likely Dublin numbers, triangulated into some (unknown) proximity to the strange 999 call. _  
_

He phoned Kate Beckett. "You think you have a good line as to your man's location?" he asked her.

"Yes. Reasonably. Nothing's certain yet..."

"All right. I'll just try pinging. We've got four numbers in the North Dublin area. We'll see if anything pops."

Ryan murmured, "Sounds like some kind of breakfast cereal."

"What we could use right now are lucky charms, Bro," said Esposito. They fistbumped.

Kate said, "I'll wait to hear from you." She didn't want to wait. Yet she was hesitant to move. Her cop's intuition told her that timing might come down to the second on this operation, and there were too many unknowns: unfamiliar team, unfamiliar turf, her own action stymied by her pregnancy, and Castle alone, in danger instead of by her side. She felt herself sinking into a swamp of anxiety.

Yasha patted Kate's shoulder. "More tea?"

Rourke texted all four numbers with the same brief message: _"Halloran here. Snafu. Call me if u want KBC."_

* * *

**8:48 a.m., Murphy's Kitchen, North Dublin**

Patty said, "Look, I'm sick of waiting. Can we just get started on the stupid bitch?" His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, scowled at the screen, and muttered, "Text from my – from Halloran. What the fuck."

Patty's eyes dodged around the room, and he looked like he might be sick. "Oh, of course me aul' fella's fecked it up somehow," he growled. "I wanted to do this all in one go. God fuckin' dammit."

Murphy said, "What's the problem?"

Patty tried to show Rourke's text to Murphy, but the old man couldn't read the tiny letters. Rick leaned against the kitchen sink and wiped his still-damp face on his dusty sleeve. He spat a little lint out. Better than using that disgusting kitchen towel on his face.

Patty read the message aloud: _"Halloran here. Snafu. Call me if u want KBC," _ then growled, "I ain't gonna feckin' talk to him."

"It's not like you have anything to be scared of," Rick said. To the others, his speech seemed a little clearer now, after the face-washing. "He's old now. And a mesh. Mess."

"I ain't scared of him!" Patty thundered. "I'm – ah, shite. Murphy, you do it."

"Really. You want me to talk to him?"

"Yeh. I don't want him to know it's me till the trap's sprung."

Rick said, "Maybe he's already figured it out."

"He thinks I'm dead," Danny said. His throat felt oddly tight. "We sent him some bits of me." He held up his left hand, and Rick saw that much of his pinkie finger was missing.

Castle snickered. "You could have Rosie install a Swiss Army Knife feature."

Murphy peered at the phone, Danny snatched it back and selected Halloran's burner number. Murphy pressed it to his ear, but put it on speaker phone so they could both hear. This meant Rick could hear it, too.

Halloran's voice was faint and thick with drugs on the other end, and they could hear a monitor beeping in the background. "Halloran here."

"Yeah," Murphy said. "Where the hell are ya?"

"Hospital. Accident."

"Where's Castle's wife?"

"Gashkouri ran us off-road south of the city."

"She's _everywhere_," Rick murmured. "When she do that?"

Murphy said, "So are ya sure they're together?"

"Feck if I know, just woke up with me leg broken." In fact, Halloran was so heavily sedated he didn't even realize most of it was gone.

"Do they know how to find us?

"I never did figger it out. Dunno if the Pakki did." Halloran gasped and coughed. "I want to know."

"What."

"I want to know... What happened him? My son. I kept my part of the deal."

"Haha, no, ya didn't. Yer a feckin' useless old git."

They heard Halloran gasping for breath and the monitor's beeping sped up. His coughing intensified, and Little Patty reached for the phone. With surprising speed and agility, Murphy held it away from him, then dropped and smashed it on the floor with his shoe.

"What was that for?" Danny shouted.

"Ye'r just like the auld fuck. Stupid. Gullible. You don't suppose the Gardai were tracin' it from hospital?"

"Aw, fuck. Bloody fuckin' fuck." Danny ran his hands through his thick, wavy black hair, his handsome face a mask of fear and anger. "That does it, I'm out. Fuckitall, Murphy, if you hadn't made me wait for Michael..."

He looked over by the sink, expecting to see Castle's smirking face. But Castle wasn't there.

* * *

**8:50 a.m, North Dublin, Rajawat's Chaat House**  
Yasha's family – her father, mother, and her 12-year-old brother – watched the team with interest as they drew up plans. Ryan said, "I hate going into this blind."

The young waitress approached shyly. "May I ask, can I give you directions?" She felt a little confused, suddenly not sure whether these people were police or tourists. Add to Gashkouri's Pakistani dialect... well, that was quite a rarity under this roof. Old conflicts were not easily forgotten, even if they were a world away.

Kate looked at her thoughtfully. "You grew up here?"

She nodded. "Born and raised."

Kate smiled. "Do you have any neighbors who are just a little..." she waved her spread fingers and grimaced. "Off? Strange?"

The girl chuckled grimly. "Oh, my goodness, yes, we have whoppers. There are the lesbian ladies with all the dogs..."

Her mother corrected her. "Brenda and Eife are _very_ nice, and they always pay cash."

"Anyone else?"

"And the old man who plays accordion down on Grafton Street sometimes." Her hands mimed the squeeze-and-keyboard motion.

"How so?" said Hunt.

"Oh. Well, of course, they are only rumors. But sometimes if the day is warm, you can smell something from the house." She wrinkled her pretty nose in disgust, and the tiny silver skull seemed to nod in agreement. "I think they make sausages. Sometimes they keep a pig in the back yard. I heard them slaughtering one once."

Kate swallowed. "Oh."

Esposito said, "Do you ever deliver there?"

"Heavens, no." She rolled her eyes. "The old man... He _looks_ at us when he walks by here. He's a creeper if I ever have ever seen one."

"Which house?" Ryan said.

She came closer and peered at the little pad, pointing with a long, purple-polished fingernail. "There. Just before the alley. Their backyard is a terrible disaster."

Kate said, "Have you ever seen any unusual activity there?"

"Oh, no. Our parents never allowed us to play there, and we have no other reason to go down a dead-end street." (This wasn't strictly true, since she used to sneak behind the laurel bushes at the lane's end to smoke cigarettes and drink hard cider with her boyfriend. It would be awkward to bring that up now). But she'd never seen anything at Murphy's house. The curtains were always closed.

"And who lives there?"

"Well, there's the old man..."

Her brother, Jaimini, cut in, "He's big. He looks mean."

Yasha nodded. "He has sort of reddish gray hair. And there's an old woman too, she's little and fat with dyed hair. She comes and gets pakoras sometimes. Talks to herself. I think maybe in Dutch or German."

"Do the other neighbors ever gossip about them?"

"There are barely any people living on the street. Most of the houses got updated in the 90s, then the developer never sold them off. There are a few squatters, so be careful."

Yasha's mother added, "The lesbians are tough as nails, but they really are very nice."

Jaimini was bouncing a ball off the sparkling-clean, red vinyl tile floor. "Their dogs are all rescued. They look like a bunch of pirates. No legs, missing eyes..."

Ryan nodded politely.

They were all startled by an odd noise, the sound of a bloodhound baying at the door. Betsy reared up and banged it open then hurtled in, tail wagging, and launched herself at Pillow Case Kate with pure joy. Betsy had been trained not to jump, but there was nothing in the manual about running in circles with her leash trailing behind, flopping on the floor with her feet up in the air, wiggling, and begging for a tummy rub. Kate was down on the tiles, hugging her in no time. Betsy flailed around happily, moaning, _"Good girl, Kate, good girl!"_ Of course Kate was a good girl. She'd been drinking milky chai and eating spinach and potatoes with ginger and cardamom, and for a frenzied, slobbery moment, all was right with the world.

Matt stood in the doorway and looked around. His shoulders drooped. "You haven't found Rick yet."

"No," Kate said. "But we know where he is. We think."

Hunt looked grim. He wasn't liking this going-in-blind thing either.

Yasha's mother said, "I am sorry, we cannot allow dogs in here."

Beckett, Hunt, Ryan, Esposito, Gaskhouri, and Matt all answered her in unison: "She's a service dog."

"Oh. Well. Ehm, all right, then." The poor woman looked like she'd eaten an unripe persimmon.

Ryan pulled a chair out for Matt, who sat down with a groan, rubbing his leash arm. "Remind me to buy Mo a beer when this is all over," Matt said. "That dog is a piece of work."

Betsy stopped wiggling and just looked at him, her drooping eyes reproachful. Dogs do not appreciate sarcasm.

"I mean, uh, good work, Betsy. You found breakfast." He added in his nicest baby-talk voice, "Good dog. Aren't you, sweetie. Yeaah, you're such a widdle princess." Yasha brought him a plate and cup, and set out the next round of food: lamb kebabs and rice.

Betsy went to Matt and assumed the "_Carefully Composed Seated Position of One Who Is Too Dignified To Beg For Lamb Kebabs"._

Watching the people reaching for the bamboo skewers and sliding the succulent meat onto the plates with their forks, Betsy accidentally segued into the "_Sincere Drool of 'I Have Not Been Fed In Two Solid Years and All I Want Is a Little Taste Really'."_ And then her tail betrayed her with _"Hopeful Thumping Masquerading As Actual Love."_ Truth is, Betsy liked Matt, she really did. He spoke Dog almost as well as Mo, and he was fun to tease. But she didn't quite totally love him yet.

Matt spied her sad face, grinned, and gave her a chunk of lamb. Mr. Rashawat, who had been operating the grill and tallying up their bill with some satisfaction, harrumphed at the insulting waste of good food on a lowly dog, and left the room, stomping upstairs to listen to the football analysis from last night's game. Matt looked at Yasha's remaining family apologetically. "What, it's not like pearls before swine..."

Betsy lay down on the floor with a happy sigh and looked up at Matt adoringly. _"I love you, Matt, Oh You Who Relent and Provide Me with Tasty Lamb,"_ she thought. She heard the boy's ball bouncing but was too tired even to show interest in playing. She was very close to drifting into a hard-earned and lovely nap on the cool, smooth floor. But wafting under the entry door, she smelled... something... CAT. Tiffany Ross's cat. _Right now._

* * *

**8:51 a.m., Murphy's basement**

It seemed to Rick that Murphy and Patty accepted that he was no threat to them at this time. Rick, as a taller-than-average man, had polished the ability of making himself seem smaller and less powerful than he actually was. He could and did play the "Mr. Intimidation" card when absolutely necessary, but that was rare; he preferred to make allies rather than enemies. His natural tendency to flinch at a threat, rather than come out fighting, also worked somewhat to his advantage, since people tended to assume he was a coward. And although he was much more lucid than he pretended to be, he still felt a bit weak and wobbly. Additionally, both Little Patty and Murphy were bigger than he, although Murphy was clearly slowed by age. Right now he didn't want to pick a fight. Right now, he wanted to do reconnaissance.

While they were on the phone with Halloran, Rick ambled casually to the basement door with so little fuss that neither of them noticed. Rick shut the door behind him and locked it – which would only slow them down for a moment since they still had a key - but any second might buy him more time. He stepped quietly down the stairs and stopped, choking out, "Son of a bitch."

The basement consisted of one large room and a door that probably led off to utilities such as the heater. The large room was white, tiled, and scrupulously clean. There were a couple of immense industrial freezers, a long stainless counter laid out with butchery tools, a meat saw, a slicer, a meat grinder, an axe, a food-grade vacuum sealer and roll of white, coated butcher paper. Multiple stainless and wire shelves and cabinets were equipped with other tools of butchery, empty shipping boxes, and other shipping supplies. On the walls were posters of suggested meat cuts, and also human anatomical posters. And there was a recipe for head cheese, cross stitched on a linen towel and stretched over a simple frame.

There was a large shower in the corner, a faint dribble still coming from its spigot. The worst thing of all was the pulley rig in the ceiling, with Tiffany Ross hung upside-down by her ankles, naked.

•

**END PART 2**


	52. Chapter 52

*I don't know who coined the phrase "Obsessive Castle Disorder" but they're a genius, and I humbly thank them.

**Before last week's episode with Ryan coaching Esposito on improv techniques, I had already written this chapter. Let me tell you, I was doin' The Dance Of Channelling The Castle Writers. THat's a very exciting feeling when that happens, since all these fanfiction efforts are about trying to emulate their mastery of the characters and their voices. I didn't get it exactly right, but it came up in conversation, so yay!

Too Soon Chapter 51 – Epiphany Part 3

**8:52 a.m. Murphy's Basement **  
Fearing the worst, Rick hurried to Tiffany. She was still alive but unconscious, her face beet-red from hanging upside down. Her wrists were cuffed too, into restraints that also hung from the ceiling, which would keep her hands from dragging on the the floor when they... "Bastards." Rick glanced at the diagrams again, sickened. They planned to split her and let her bleed out, like a pig. Her body was freshly shaven, her wet hair pulled into a tight ponytail that dangled almost to the floor, the water dripping into the puffy folds of her loose vinyl shower cap.

Castle bent and patted Tiffany's face. "Tiffany? Come on, sweetie, wake up."

She moaned, trembled, then jerked awake, and he stifled her scream with his hand. She tried to bite him and he flattened his palm over her mouth, attempting to calm her.

"Hush, hush, I'm trying to get you down. I have a pick, okay?"

Tiffany whimpered, and tears ran down her forehead. He pulled out his handkerchief and sort of draped it between her legs for modesty, without looking too much. Then he knelt and wiped her face gently with the soft, still slightly-damp cuff of his sleeve. "Let's get you out of this thing."

* * *

**8:55 a.m., Rajawat's Chaat house, North Dublin**

Betsy's brilliant nose told her everything, _all of it bad, all of it GO! Now, now, outside, NOW:_ _TIFFANY! AND RICK! Outside. Neutered male domestic American shorthair with black-and-white markings. Terribly hungry and frightened, not knowing how to hunt. Outside. _Betsy had to bark it out, bay it out, this was a BIG DEAL.

_Tiffany, so hungry and scared, Pillowcase Rick on drugs again!? Salty tears, bacon gone horribly wrong, magazine perfume samples from twenty different brands, soap, all-in-one-shampoo-and-conditioner, old German lady on heart medication with tiny prions eating holes in her brain, (Note to self: do not bite old lady!) angry old Irish man with blood on his hands and the faintest trace of elephant ivory from some sort of musical instrument... _Betsy categorized animal, vegetable, mineral: glue, paint, plastic, the fine powdered lead dust in the Christmas light wire wrapping, the bones of _many many too many dead people, and an evil evil evil evil bad guy, Halloran's son, a sick, sick, bad, bad, BAD MAN. _The Sherlock of Smell barked and bayed and scratched at the door, and Matt latched her back onto her leash.

They all felt it in their bones, NOW. And Betsy could smell that they felt it.

Kate even said it, caught between thrill and fear: "This is it."

Gashkouri pulled a wad of cash out and covered the bill. Esposito said, "Want me to cover the tip?"

"We don't tip here."

He shrugged and set twenty Euros under the salt shaker. "College fund," he grinned. Yasha grinned back, then scowled when her mother pocketed the money.

"College fund is right," said Mrs. Rajawat.**  
**  
Betsy got confused for a moment, following the cat instead of the source of the scents it carried. Fabio, who was not exactly a street-wise cat, darted across the intersection to escape the Barking Terror, and a small car screeched to avoid missing him. Matt made Betsy heel, and soon they were safely across the street, with her baying frantically at Fabio, who was 20 feet up in an aged chestnut tree.

Matt's shoulders sagged and he called back to the others. "It's just a cat."

Betsy suddenly realized, _"It's not the cat. It's what's on his paws!" _

She turned around the other way, barreled back (Screech! Honk! "Arsehole!" "Sorry!" "Feckin' Tourist!" "Stupid Feckin' Mutt!") to the chaat house, where everyone stared at her, radiating confusion and disappointment, and in the little boy's case, outright scorn. She ducked her head, and tucked her tail, hoping they would accept her apology. She was terribly embarrassed. Kate knelt by her. "It's okay, girl. Do you know where Rick is?" Betsy leaned against Kate, and Kate patted her butt then hugged her. "You are such a good girl."

"_I am?"_ said Betsy's tail, which would believe almost anything. The rest of her wasn't entirely sure.

Matt reached into her pannier and brought out a treat. "There's a good girl. Where's Rick?"

"Matt, try to keep her quiet, but see if she gives you anything definite. We'll give you a couple minute's lead time." Matt nodded, and took off with the dog.

Not wanting to get them too excited... but knowing she was on the right track again... the bloodhound trotted steadily down the little side street, nose to the ground, following Fabio's trail to Pillow Case Rick and Tiffany, Tiffany, Tiffany. Her tail windmilling, her concentration on following both Rick's older scent moving away and the the somewhat meandering path of a confused feline who had escaped a house that smelled like death, Betsy didn't pay any attention to what Kate was saying as her voice faded into the background.

"Espo, go to the next street up and see if you can come through the back alley. Hunt, you'll be concealed in back of the SUV. Ryan, keep this street blocked to anyone except Dublin uniforms – police, fire. With luck, none of them will be dirty."

In response to Gashkouri's quizzical stare, Beckett said, "I think right now, what we need is the dirtiest cop we can get."

Gashkouri didn't even have time to react to the statement before Beckett punched her in the jaw.

•

* * *

**8:59 a.m., Rajawat's Chaat house, North Dublin**

Zameer Gashkouri arrived at the Chaat House just in time to see a brown-haired supermodel punch his sister in the jaw. He was out of the truck and ready to jump in when he was held back by two smaller but efficient and strong men, while an old guy with white hair just stood back and laughed, and the Rajawat family clustered inside their shop, peeking out the window with their eyes popping and the door quietly locked.

Ameena said, "What the fuck, Beckett?" and Beckett backed off, then tapped her own cheek. "On the face. We want them to think we've been fighting. Use the adrenaline."

Ameena paused and introduced Zameer: "Ryan. Esposito, Mr. Hunt, this is my brother Sammy. He knows every road in Dublin. He'll show you 'round the back way."

Then Zameer watched in amazement as his sister belted the taller woman in the face. Ameena stepped away, nursing a sore hand ("Oh, motherfucker that hurts!")

Beckett pressed hard on her own cheek. "That should do it. Ow." She grinned ruefully.

"Sorry," said Ameena.

"Nice one," said Esposito. He wouldn't have wanted to be in that position with either of them.

Ryan grinned, "Most civilized cat-fight ever."

"I normally carry a gun," said Kate.

"What the hell is going on here?" bellowed Zameer.

Ameena shot an eyeroll at her big brother. "Oh, don't be so goddamn heroic, we're just prepping."

The supermodel introduced herself. "I"m Kate Beckett-Castle."

"Ohhh, Castle's wife," Zameer chuckled. "Yeh, I would've punched her too."

The dapper, white-haired man climbed into the back of the SUV. "Ready?"

Kate nodded and got into the driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors and belting in. Ameena climbed in on the passenger's side.

A couple of middle-aged women, one in a tweed suit and the other in chinos and sneakers, approached down the sidewalk with seven dogs. They looked askance at the little crowd in front of Rajawat's. A tall woman with the beginning of a black eye smiled at them from the driver's seat of an SUV. "Excuse me, did you happen to pass a man with a hound dog?"

"Yes. You can't miss him, the street's pretty much a dead end unless he takes an alley."

The woman smiled and nodded. "Thank you so much!" She started the SUV and drove away with a grateful wave. Three rather tough-looking men remained. The tallest, who was likely Pakistani, was talking to Yasha, the little waitress. "So, hey, what time are you off today?"

Yasha was smiling – not the nervous smile of someone trying to fend off trouble. She gave Eife and Brenda a grin as they passed, and all three men seemed to like the dogs as well. So no worries then.

Brenda said, "Awful lot of Yanks around this morning."

Eife shrugged. "Tourists."

* * *

**8:59 a.m, Hallton Hotel Roof, Dublin Airport**

Teresa Beckett, AKA Agent Teri Soames, AKA the formally retired Agent 47 of an international organization so clandestine it rarely divulged its own name, turned to the bellboy with a brilliant smile. "Gerald, thank you so much for your assistance."

Gerald the bellboy shrugged, grinned, "You're welcome, Ma'am," and blushed to his collar. They finished loading the last vestiges of Castle's team's belongings into the chopper, and Teresa handed him a little tube of rolled-up bills. "For your trouble. Also, there's a little sportscar down in the parking lot, registered to a Terri Soames. The keys are in the ignition, paperwork's in the glove box. Everything's in order. If you promise not to breathe a word of this, it's yours. "

The young bellboy, who was all of nineteen, ducked into the rooftop elevator. He was having the BEST day of his life. Last night he'd gotten a huge tip from Mr. Castle, then some weirdly handsome gym-rat fellow paid him 300 euros to switch off the hallway security cameras, now he had another 1000 Euros and a new car. Finally Gerald could afford to move out of his mother's basement.

* * *

**9 a.m., Murphy's Basement**

Upstairs Castle heard Patty thump on the door. "What the feck you doin' in there?"

Castle motioned Tiffany for quiet and went back up the stairs, peeking around the door at Patty. "Uh, just, wow, you know you can change the angles on this thing? It's SO cool."

Patty grinned. "Innit though?"

Castle whispered, "Hey, do you have any condoms?"

Patty chuckled and fished around in his front pocket. "Extra large," he grinned. "Not that you likely need it."

Castle waggled his eyebrows. "No complaints so far."

He shut the door and went back down. When Tiffany saw the condom wrapper in his hand, she said, "Oh, God, no!"

He snapped "Quiet!" loudly, opened the wrapper, threw it in the trash, then unrolled the condom, put a drop of liquid soap in it, knotted it up to look used, and threw that in the trash as well. To his grief, he saw there was already a used set in there: condom and wrapper, and a used disposable shaver. He decided not to mention any of that to her.

She quavered, "What are you doing?"

"Actions speak louder than words. As far as they're concerned, I'm on their side." That might come in as a handy detail if Patty or Murphy happened to check. He had no way of telling how everything was going to go, and he figured character development was going to build trust a lot quicker than words ever would.

Castle felt around in his belt buckle and found the small wire lock pick concealed in its inside surface. Tiffany's hand cuffs were cheap, easy enough to unfasten even with his crippled hand, but he was unsure how to lower Tiffany down without hurting her. Then he realized Little Patty had hauled her up from the ground with the pulleys, and he said, "Brace your hands on the floor. I'll let you down as slowly as I can." He glanced up at the ceiling, praying there were no cams on them. Actually, there were, but those cams were in Murphy's office, and nobody was watching at the time.

Tiffany's back arched painfully as her weight transferred from the ceiling hook to her arms and wrists, and she cried out in pain. Finally, feet and knees on the floor, she crouched into a ball and heaved into the floor drain, but she was emptied and dehydrated. There was a hint of dried blood in the grout around the metal guard – not her blood, and not rust, because when she spat up on it, it shifted to reddish from brown. She heaved again. Castle unlocked the shackles on her ankles.

"Here, take my turtleneck," he said, and averting his eyes, handed it to her. Then he stepped over to the wall and grabbed a clean-suit off a hook for her. Tiffany crawled away from the drain and he steadied her while she put his warm shirt on. She was so short it came down well past her hips, but she was still naked on the bottom, sitting on the cold floor, holding the hankie like a loincloth, her skin blue with shock and the chill morning.

"I'm so thirsty," she rasped. Rick cut a rough 8" square out of the roll of butcher paper and folded an origami cup for her, then brought her a drink of water from the utility sink. The water drummed in the sink, and he didn't hear Hunt's SUV drive by Murphy's house, then back up and screech to a halt.

* * *

**9:03 a.m., North Dublin side street**  
Not one to be held back, Betsy hauled Matt off down the narrow street, the two of them following her nose. They rounded a curve and crossed paths with Brenda and Eife, a couple of middle-aged women out walking their seven dogs. Matt pulled back on the lead nervously, but Betsy knew exactly what to do. She'd actually expected them. Betsy was able to smell their comings and goings, day in and day out, over the past several years; she could also smell an eighth dog, a spayed female border collie, the ghost of its scent walking among them in that back-and-forth-twice-a-day trail, long after it died of a spinal tumor. She could smell all the medicine the combined dogs took, the special foods they ate, the fact that they lived with three cats (poor things) and she could smell that the ladies loved one another in a very particular way. She took it in the way you or I would take in a sidewalk covered with chewing gum spots: most of them are black and dried out, and you don't need to give them a second thought. But the patches of fresh gum and other litter on the ground are visual cues to watch your step. Betsy's cues were't visual, but olfactory.

Betsy knew she was on their turf, and she had a job to do. Mo had trained her on this, knowing that some dogs get anxious, some people get watchful and territorial and have shotguns. So Betsy simply sat down politely, wagged her tail at Matt, smiled genially at the women with her ears back in the position of _"Don't you just wanna pet me?"_ and ignored the other dogs. Oh, the little blind one yapped a bit, not able to see Betsy's body language, but the woman with the spikey hair soothed the blind dog, and it calmed down.

The ladies stopped briefly to admire Betsy. They were also the unofficial neighborhood watch for the street. They'd seen a few weird things, once made a phone call when old man Murphy slaughtered a pig in the backyard, and they'd chased off a few squatters, nailed a few windows shut, put out a fire or two.

Eife, the taller, slightly younger one said, "May I pet? Oh, look at you. Aren't you a pretty girl."

Betsy's tail quite agreed. She smiled and leaned into the affection. Brenda said, "Rare thing, to see a blue-tick hound in Ireland."

"Yeah," Matt admitted. "We're visiting friends. I was just going to take her for a walk." He let Betsy pull them forward. "She just seems to want to explore."

Brenda said, "This is a one-way street, you know."

Matt shrugged genially. "Oh, well, that's okay, she's just... picked up a squirrel or something, just humoring her."

"They can be pig-headed," said Eife.

"OH, you have no idea!" Matt chuckled ruefully. "Now we'll just... nice meeting you!" and he and Betsy were gone around the corner with a weary wave of hand and tail.

Eife tutted. "She'll run him ragged if he lets her."

Brenda looked down at her sweetie's vintage denim jacket with the frayed hems. "You're one to talk." The two of them laughed and continued on their walk.  
•

* * *

**9:05 a.m., Murphy's Kitchen**

Murphy put the kettle on and restocked the tea strainer, setting it inside the cream-and-brown earthenware pot. He glanced around the kitchen. "So where do ya plan to go today, after we pack the shipment up?"

"Depends on who wins... Castle or McGowran."

"How so?"

"You ever meet Rose?"

"Heh. Yeah, long ago. Don't think she ever took to me, though." Murphy smiled bitterly. Women rarely did.

"Rose and I have a _understanding_," said Little Patty. He smiled, almost shyly. "Michael wasn't always there for her, ya know?"

"Well, why didn't you just put him out of the way?"

"Ah, she thinks she can have her cake and eat it too."

Murphy sniffed. "Typical. So if Castle wins..."

"Michael dies, and I go bust Rosie out of jail. We've got friends. We can be in Canada in a day, be in Costa Rica by way of Mexico in two. She's got offshore accounts. We could open a spa." He worked as a personal trainer. It was mostly a cover job, but he liked it. Although he never kept clients for more than a few weeks. He could be a little sadistic.

Murphy considered. "You don't suppose Castle wants Rosie."

"Nah. He's like Michael – likes 'em on the young side. He'd go off to some tropical island and pick off little girls to his heart's content. Maybe Thailand. How about you?" Something clanked downstairs. Maybe Castle had run into a pile of pans or something.

Little Patty banged on the door with his fist. "What the hell is goin' on down there?"

Castle replied, "Oh, you know. The usual."  
•

* * *

**9:05 a.m., North Dublin, Unnamed Street, Around the Corner**  
After rounding the curve, Betsy got serious again. Following her nose was one thing, but Matt had better vision, and he could see it: no bike. Oh. Wait. Just part of a frame.

Matt got on the phone to Jackson Hunt. "Raleigh bike frame. One of Rick's stickers is on the seat post. Front door's red. Bars on the windows"

"Good. Act casual. Keep moving out of sight of the house."

"Tell that to Betsy." He hung up. Having found her quarry, Betsy stopped. She sniffed the ground where Rick had knelt by the bike frame, the frame itself, and the fence. Her tail thrashed in triumph. Fortunately for them, those indoors were preoccupied with other pursuits. The only house on the street where it mattered was the only house with steel entry doors and double-paned windows: nobody inside heard a peep when she yipped in frustration. She whined, wanting – begging – to follow her darling Rick's trail up the stairs. She sat, pointing her nose. She turned to Matt and bayed, just once, as he tried to haul her away. "C'mon, Betsy. Heel!"

Her look spoke volumes, hackles raised on the back of her shoulders: _"Lamb or no lamb, you are an idiot, and you don't deserve to be on that end of a leash."_

He pulled. She moaned. "Come _on_," he pleaded, then quieted his voice, trying to reason with someone who was absolutely certain she'd found the hound-dog's equivalent of the Holy Grail.

Then he grunted softly and passed some gas, and Betsy suddenly realized that he really needed a potty break, poor boy. No wonder he was so cranky. The coffee and apple and Indian-style vegetables in his breakfast had finally worked their magic, and there wasn't a restroom in sight. She wondered if he had a plastic baggie with him. She had no intention of carrying it, but she relented. When Mo got like this, he meant business.

"Good girl! But you're not safe here. And I gotta... find a quiet little place somewhere. Heel. We'll come back, I promise."  
•

* * *

**Right now. You. Simmering on a Slow Burn.  
**

"Okay!" you are saying to yourself. "_How many handkerchiefs can one man have_?"

We all know that what separates Richard Castle fans from the normal mystery reader. Obsessive attention to detail, under the umbrella of OCD, or Obsessive Castle Disorder*. This has been bothering me for several chapters now, and probably you as well. (If so, give yourself a nice gold star!)

Let us recount. Castle hung one on the tree last night. He dropped one under the van to carry his scent. Gave one to Gashkouri to dry her tears. And now he's using this one on Tiffany. I might have missed a few since the morning of July 3. It's been a _long_ day.

You remember Castle's love of tricks, how he hung out in magic shops as a kid. And how impressed he was that Beckett's grandfather was a magician.

After his experience crawling through batshit (remember that? Back in May?) he recalled once again that Boy Scouts always carry a bandanna (he'd never gotten the chance to do the actual Scouting, but he studied all the badge stuff on his own, and to Beckett's eternal amusement, could tie _all kinds_ of interesting knots). When he made arrangements to go on this rescue mission to Ireland, he had his pants tailored with extra pockets hidden inside the waistband. I can't tell you everything that he carried, but these pants allowed for several extra handkerchiefs. He also had a lock pick in his belt buckle, and a tiny pair of tweezers hidden in the tongue of his shoe, because splinters happen.  
•

* * *

**9:07 a.m., Murphy's kitchen**

Satisfied with Castle's reply and the girl's intermittent cries, Patty turned back to Murphy. "Won't you miss this place?"

Murphy picked up his concertina and played a cheerful ditty while he talked, just noodling around. "What, Ireland! Nah. Start all over, someplace warm where me arthritis won't act up. San Diego. Just north of the Mexican border – open a charcuterie." His melody started to sound vaguely Latin.

"Ah. Cheap meat."

Murphy grinned. "As for this house, it's a stone around me neck, and I'll be glad to see it go up in flames."

The kettle whistled. Murphy said, "Be a good lad. Me knee's hurtin', can you pour the kettle for me?

Little Patty did as he was asked, very nicely indeed.

•

* * *

**9:02 a.m., Murphy's Basement**

"Thanks." Tiffany drank, then looked down at herself, wiping a drip off her leg. It's amazing, the things that go through a person's mind when their life is on the line. "Oh, my God, my thighs are so fucking huge," she groaned.

"They're perfect," Rick consoled her. "Because you can stand on them."

He helped Tiffany up, and she put the clean suit on. It was filmy and paper-like, but better than nothing. She stood there, shivering, head down, and breathed, "There's no way out. We're gonna... we're gonna die here."

"No," Rick said. "No we are _not_. Let's walk it out a little." With Castle steadying her, they walked to the sink. He had only the barest idea of how they might escape, but he hoped the phone call from Halloran might slow Murphy and Patty down a little – that is, if it didn't accelerate their plans for mayhem. And then there was Beckett's team. They just might put the puzzle together and show up in time. "Tiffany, what did I tell Beckett on the phone?"

"You were talking about a bike, and stickers, and..."

"Did I tell her I love her?"

Tiffany blushed a little. "Yeah."

"Good. Wouldn't want to leave that out."

"Nobody loves me. I feel so gross. I'm so fat. They might as well just kill me."

"Over my dead body." He patted her back while her sobs diminished to little sniffles. She took his last, wrinkled hankie out of her pocket and blew her nose, the honk echoing on the tiled walls.

She leaned against him. People say weird things when they're on drugs and convinced they're about to die. "At least my boobs are bigger now," she said.

He squeaked, "Well, that's two good things," and, leaving her leaning against the counter, hurried to the chair. "What we need is to, uh, focus, and, uh, make a, make a shield. Armor. Something."

He picked up the chair and upended it on the counter, grabbed some strapping tape, and began fastening a knife to the chair's right front foot, pointy-end-down, its blade extending several inches off the end of its chair leg. He struggled with his cast, and at his direction, she awkwardly wrapped the tape. Her wrists were swollen and bruised from the cuffs. It wasn't easy.

Castle talked while they worked. "You ever see a lion tamer at the circus?" He looked through the cabinets, high and low, finding metal bowls, baking sheets, metal trays. He laid them out on the counter.

She pursed her lips. "Animal acts are abusive. I wouldn't go if you paid me."

He suppressed a sigh. "How about in a cartoon?" He picked the chair up by its back and held it out in front of him, but it was hard to control with his bad right hand. "Damn cast. You try it."

"Okay." She held the chair up, the wicked-sharp foot pointing away from her. She swung it in an arc, and he dodged back in fear for his life.

"Okay! Right. Now all the other feet. You can use that as a shield, just swing it at anyone who tries to get near you."

"How do I get out?"

"You may need protection. Make some kind of armor out of the metal pans – there's the tape - whatever you can figure out. Then you tuck yourself into a corner and stay safe. I'll figure out a way to get us out of here. If I say run, you run. If anyone gets close, stab at them with the chair."

•

* * *

**9:09 a.m., Murphy's House, North Dublin**

There was a screech of brakes outside. Dan Halloran hurried to the front window and swore in astonishment. Before their guests even had a chance to knock, Dan was unlocking the door, and Ameena Gashkouri pushed Kate Beckett into the foyer, with a pistol pressed into her side. Beckett's face was a study in desperate rage, and both women looked like they'd been fighting, their hair mussed, Beckett with a black eye, and Gashkouri with a rising bruise on her jaw.

Dan chuckled to himself, remembering one of Rosie's favorite pieces of advice: "Divide and conquer."  
•

* * *

**8:50 a.m., Hallton Hotel Roof, Dublin Airport**

Teresa climbed into the chopper's cockpit. She donned a helmet and goggles, scanned the controls, and scowled to herself. "It's been awhile, but here goes nothing." She hadn't flown a helicopter since they switched over to computerized controls, but she had kept herself in practice in the sims, so it was actually easier. She radioed Hunt's SUV, and it relayed him a transcribed text. He caught it in the chaat house, and returned her query with the address. "Once you've picked up Roarke &amp; Mo, meet us cemetery."  
•

* * *

**9:08 a.m., End of the Street**  
Betsy and Matt continued to the end of the street, with a view of the SUV but not the house as the road curved.

Matt made an executive decision to take a latrine break between the laurel bushes and the railroad sound wall. There was a bunch of trash back there – cigarette butts, used condoms, liquor bottles. He clipped Betsy's leash to a sturdy branch facing the street and admonished, "Betsy, stay." Betsy sat down where the pavement gave way to dirt, gave him the _"Innocent Glance Of A Dog Who Is So Good It Would __Never__ Occur To Her To Run Off,"_ and looked away, down the street.

Some people say dogs can't lie. Some people are fools.

Betsy knew that Yasha Rajawat had trysted there with a young native Irishman on numerous occasions, but that several months had elapsed and she was not currently having sex with anyone else because her heart had been broken. Betsy also knew that Yasha's younger brother had come here on a separate occasion, tried drinking a bottle of cheap American lager, gotten halfway through, and thrown it all up. Those laurel bushes had seen a lot, but they hadn't seen Richard Castle or Tiffany Ross – although her cat had hidden there a little while - and Betsy was sadder than a high school sophomore being stood up for a prom date. She stared back down the street. She knew they were in that house Matt had made her leave behind. She _knew_ it. Involuntarily, her front feet did The Dance of _"Can We Get The Fuck On With This?" _With a mournful sigh, she laid her chin on her feet to make them behave. She'd had to wait around for Mo a few times when he needed a latrine in the field, on long hunts.

Matt picked up the beer bottle and with practiced ease, broke it off against the wall, and used it as an improvised shovel to dig himself a hole in the dirt. He pulled wipes and some hand sanitizer out of his pocket and took his pants down with a sigh. His belly-ache told him this was going to take a while. There is no arguing with autonomic bodily functions and a pint of coffee. He looked through the laurel thicket and was abashed by Betsy's reproachful gaze, clear as day. _"You're going to take forever, aren't you."_

"Quit staring," he sighed. "You're just making this worse."

They both heard a car approaching in the distance. Recognizing the sound and scent of Hunt's SUV, Betsy pricked up her ears, stood up, and bayed again, fighting against the leash. She was strong, and Matt had his pants down.

"Betsy, sit!"

Hunt's black SUV roared up the street, then stopped abruptly and backed away toward the house with the red door.  
•

* * *

**9:10 a.m., Rajawat's Chaat House**

As she guided the SUV away from the restaurant, Beckett spoke to Gashkouri.

"Something you need to know. Castle... well, his mom's not just an actress, but an acting teacher. His dad's some kind of a secret agent, and he's a writer."

"So?"

"So by nature and trade, he's a consummate liar. If he's not still out of his mind on whatever drugs they gave him, he'll have a plan, and that plan will probably look really... stupid. So whatever he says... well, his mom taught me the first rule of improv is "Say yes." **

"Yes?"

"Well, not necessarily _yes_, but not _no_. Whatever he does, play into it. Go with it."

They rounded the curve. An eighth-mile ahead of them, the row houses came to an end, and they could see a fenced gap before the next row started. "I think we're there," Kate said.

Jackson called out from the far back of the SUV, concealed amongst duffel bags, clothes, and Betsy's carrier crate; everything they'd brought from the Hunstman's Arms Hotel when they checked out before dawn. "Yeah, Matt confirms there's a bike frame with one of Rick's tags on it. Also a white delivery van with a Ganesh logo parked in the side alley."

Beckett took a deep breath and handed Ameena her own gun. "It's not loaded. I can't afford an accident."

Gashkouri nodded. "You're sure?"

Beckett said, "You know 'All guns are loaded.' But this one isn't."

Gashkouri rolled down her window and aimed at a derelict chimney. She pulled the trigger and it clicked. "Just making sure." Gashkouri whispered.

Hunt said, "That was a bit on the weird side."

"Things were already weird."

Beckett flickered a smile at Gashkouri and repeated what Martha had told her: "Use the adrenaline. And tell the truth whenever possible."  
•

* * *

**9:11 a.m.** **Murphy's Front Door**  
Kate deliberately passed Murphy's house, the bike, and the alley, slammed the brakes with a screech, tapped the horn as if accidentally with her elbow, backed up sloppily, and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Hope that was loud enough," she murmured. "We can assume they're watching us." She bent her head, clutching the steering wheel, and murmured to herself, "Here we come, Castle." She had no idea what she was going to find, and she was scared.

Gashkouri took the keys, came around the front of the SUV and said loudly, "Open the door. Don't do anything stupid."

Kate got out, hands up, and Gashkouri motioned her up the stairs with the gun. Kate climbed. Gashkouri said, "You knock."

She'd barely lifted her hand when the door opened. A handsome, black-haired, tall man in a clean suit smirked down at them. "Ha. Right on time." His jaw looked a little swollen on the right; someone had gone at him with a left hook. Maybe Castle.

Gashkouri shoved Beckett into the house.

Little Patty scanned up and down the street. Aside from the badly-parked SUV and the sound of a distant dog barking, it was quiet. He heard a helicopter in the distance, but that also was normal: they were only a few miles from both an airport and a hospital.

Inside, Beckett's sense of smell, heightened by pregnancy, went crazy: Bacon, toast, tea, fear, air freshener, some kind of paint or plastic, cat-box, an old man's malfunctioning prostate, bodies... She felt sick, and couldn't help but call out in anxiety. "Castle? Where are you?"

"Hahah, he's kinda busy right now." The young man closed the door behind them, and the locks snicked shut. Last of all he turned the knob key and thrust it through the clean-suit into his jeans pocket.

"Mornin', Ladies," said an old man. He shuffled out of the kitchen, wearing baggy-at-the-knee trousers, sneakers, and a green-and-yellow rugby shirt, his reddish hair streaked with gray. He had a small bandage over what was probably a minor cut on his forehead. Aside from his imposing size, he seemed so ordinary until he smiled, the teeth crooked and brown, the friendly tone not extending to his eyes.

Kate called out, "Castle, are you here? _Castle?"_

* * *

**9:12 a.m., Murphy's basement**  
Castle started up the basement stairs, paused for a moment listening to voices from the kitchen, and said, "Oh, no, no. Kate..."

* * *

**9:12 a.m. Murphy's kitchen**

Gashkouri said, "Cut the pleasantries. I brought what you want. Now tell me what happened to my mother."

A door banged open into the kitchen, from the basement, and who should come charging out but Richard Castle, fastening up his belt. He stopped dead a moment, by the big old stove, taking in the two women in the foyer: Kate, her head lowered but gazing up at him uncertainly, Gashkouri with a gun to Kate's side.

Castle didn't look silly, or loopy anymore. Although he stumbled a little, and seemed to have trouble focusing, he evoked a very angry bull, and he was terrifying. Murphy and Little Patty backed subtly away, Gashkouri found herself wanting to hide behind Beckett, and Kate herself was shaking.

"Beckett, what the _hell_ are you doing here?" Castle grabbed Murphy's beautiful stone-wear teapot off the counter and threw it against the wall for emphasis; it shattered and a clear, brown splatter streamed down the bead-board wainscoting. Everybody jumped a little.

Murphy said, "Hey!" and Castle ignored him.

Beckett was trying to stay calm and on the verge of failing. "I could ask you the same," she glowered.

"You were supposed to stay in New York." There was a deep anger simmering in his face, and Kate realized at its core, it was real, and justified: she really wasn't supposed to be in Ireland, let alone in Dublin, let alone in this house, with all this death. It was exactly what he had wanted her to avoid, all along.

Her voice shook. "I saw what you did, Castle. What you did to Elise Mowry and to Kayla Twimbly. I know _everything_."

"Don't think you can save me," he smirked.

"I don't," Kate said. "I just need to save Tiffany. You can damn well take care of yourself at this point."

Castle smirked. "Yeah, everyone wants Tiffany. I don't think you realize you're in no position to set terms."

"Everyone else can go to hell, but I'm not leaving without her."

"That's the general idea," said Joseph Murphy.

Dan Halloran snickered. "Yeah, because you'll be dead before you leave."

Gashkouri swallowed. "Beckett's no good to you dead."

"She's no good to you, either," Castle sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "If you want to know what happened to your mother, I recommend you check the first door on the left … up there," he said, pointing somewhat haphazardly toward the stairs.

"Yes, and what shall I find there?"

She noticed that he couldn't look her in the eye when he said it, his gaze still on the stairs. "A fine assortment of corpses. Or maybe try the attic. Just... stay out of my sight."

Gashkouri looked from Murphy to Little Patty. Murphy shrugged, and Dan reached for the gun Beckett had given Gashkouri. He patted Ameena down – his hand lingering on her breast - then smirked, "She's pretty clean, all things considered."

Kate glared at Castle. "You're gonna just let them do this?"

"I'm not just letting them. I'm in. I'm helping them."

Dan tossed Gashkouri's car keys onto the dining table (narrowly missing the plate of congealing bacon), then chucked her under the chin and murmured, "You little slut. Who'd you blow to pull this together? Who you gonna blow to hide what you've done?"

Gashkouri said, "All I want is to know the truth, for myself. Then I'll be on my way, and nobody will ever know I was here."

"Suit yerself," said Patty. He watched her as she climbed the stairs, and when she was out of sight, made an obscene gesture. "She's right about that. Half of her will be barbeque at a North Korean banquet by Thursday."

Castle and Beckett were still glaring at one another. Kate said, "This isn't you, Rick."

He laughed, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. "How do you know? You think I'm still the idiot whose heart you broke ten times over? You think after all I've learned, I'm still the man you married?"

"I know you're in there somewhere." But for a moment, just for a tiny moment, she felt the slightest quiver of doubt. He moved as if drunk or still drugged, but with such menace, his eyes hooded. For the first time ever, she felt afraid of him. _Afraid_. Of the man she loved with all her heart, whom she had trusted with her life, who had called her back from death itself.

And looking in his eyes, she could tell that he knew it.

•

* * *

**END OF PART 3**

you can go straight to Part 4, if you can handle it... ;-)**  
**


	53. Chapter 53

**BEGINNING OF PART 4  
**  
**9:14 a.m., Murphy's Kitchen**  
Danny Halloran was really beginning to enjoy this, and flicked a glance over at Murphy, who was also watching Richard Castle in fascination. Danny hadn't been sure before, but seeing the pretty woman flinch confirmed it: the writer had become one of them, maybe even better than Michael McGowran, turning on his own wife like this. Because when a man turns on his wife, his family, the world blows apart and comes back together like a pieced-together shell of itself. Danny knew it from hard experience with his father, from watching his mother rolled out of her home on a gurney for the last time. He needed to see it. Needed to understand it, finally, how his father could have slowly murdered his mother and himself over the course of his childhood. Danny was dead inside, almost all the time, feeling nothing unless he was in pain, screwing, hurting, or killing someone. Fear in the eyes brought his mother back to life in vivid detail. Fear made him feel alive. It gave him the power he couldn't find any other way.

Castle approached Beckett slowly, staggering just a little but pretty much in control, a finger skirting along the length of the kitchen table more for reference than for balance. "Seriously, these drugs are amazing. It feels like I'm walking through a lake of tar," he chuckled, then shook it off. He left the table as if wading up to his chest in a cold river, moving from rock to rock, and caught his balance on the sideboard. "Remember our first kiss?"

Little Patty watched the fear growing in Beckett's pale face, her wide eyes, tiny pupils in green irises that had darkened to brown.

She rasped, "You kissed me on the cheek."

"No, no, no..." Castle's voice went high, singsong, teasing unpleasantly. "Not that one."

"The front door. Your loft."

"Noooooo." He sort of fell into her, shoving her shoulders back against the kitchen wall.

Danny stepped closer. He wanted to see everything, Kate's face, wanted to see Castle start unbuttoning her shirt, wanted to see her fight and hear her whimper. He was ready to help take her down, tear her apart. He could feel himself hardening again, quite soon after what he'd done to Tiffany before he hung her up. But he hadn't had hands free for that. He liked firing a gun and his load at the same time, but they weren't quite at that point yet.

Beckett shoved back, grimacing. "Castle. Stop it."

Danny and Murphy both snickered. Danny mouthed, "This is gonna be good."

Castle had Beckett pinned. He took her jaw in his hand. "Our firsssst kiss. You know. The alley."

"The alley?"

Castle smirked at her. "You little liar. You pretended you didn't want to. Just like you're pretending now. Maybe I can make you change your mind." He shook her, just slightly.

Her eyes teared up. "Please," she begged. "Don't make me remember every stupid thing we did that night."

Castle leaned in, eyes locked on hers. "Oh, yes, Kate. It was stupid then. And it's stupid _now_."

Patty watched the whole thing with a confused mix of amusement and nervousness and lust. He hoped he was going to get a turn with her. As Michael had told them, the general consensus was true: she was extraordinary.

As Beckett stared at Castle in consternation, he planted a kiss on her.

•

* * *

**9:13 a.m., Murphy's house, 2****nd**** Floor**  
Ameena came to the top of the stairs and was seized with an overwhelming desire to run out of the building. After all this time of wondering and waiting and frustrating dead ends, every instinct told her this was a charnel house, a deathly place, the deadest end of all. She could smell bodies, mold, dust, plastic, cat-box, and it was much worse here, upstairs, than it had been in the foyer where fresh air blew through occasionally. She felt as if breath were being stolen from her body by a ghost.

As Castle had instructed her, she knocked on the first door on the left. She didn't know what – or who - she would find. Her wildest hope, her dream, was that her mother would be there, perhaps imprisoned somehow, chained to a loom and forced to weave rugs as she had back home. But this seemed an unlikely place for such a happy ending. She opened the door and stopped, staring at the creche in the low light. In the bed, an elderly woman sat up and said, "Hello, dear."

Ameena's heart leapt into her throat and she jumped back. "Holy crap," she breathed. She added more loudly, "Who are you?"

The old woman climbed out of bed and shuffled toward Ameena, leaving someone sleeping in the bed next to her. "I am Greta Schirrmacher Kristow." As she came closer, Greta peered at Ameena's face, then gently reached up her twisted hands, placing finger-pads on the agent's occipital bone, then her cheekbone, then the bridge of her nose, then her jaw, reading the younger woman's bone structure with eyes closed, as if she were blind.

Greta turned and pointed toward the mummified effigy of Mary, the mother of her Holy Spirit Incarnate, and said, "More importantly, Ameena, who is she?"

* * *

**9:14 a.m., Murphy's Kitchen**  
Beckett pushed her husband away, hard. He staggered back against Murphy, who grunted in surprise at a loud buzzing noise, and fell over with a shout of pain. Castle had tased him with the device hidden in his cast.

In a blur too fast even to see, Dan Halloran found himself on the receiving end of Kate's boot smashing into his genitals. He collapsed into himself with a guttural cry, pulling the pistol's trigger spasmodically, but to his chagrin, the gun was unloaded and nothing happened. On the floor, he lay writhing as Kate stomped on his crotch again, then on his hand, and kicked her gun away from it. Castle was on him then, the newly infamous left hook employed in demolishing Little Patty's carefully constructed visage.

Patty bellowed, "Not the face! Not the face!" The killer felt his cheekbone implant smashed in, and then his chin implant dislodged. At each new injury, he screamed in pain, and Castle responded by closing his hand around Patty's throat and squeezing, his full weight on the killer's windpipe. Little Patty pawed desperately on Castle's iron grip. Castle's eyes were blue with cold fury, while Patty's vision became obscured by blood running into his own eyes, pooling over the lenses, stinging and salty.

Kate stopped him. "Castle! Rick. Stop! He needs to live long enough to testify, babe." She grabbed his shoulder. "Rick. It's okay."

Castle looked down the front hall at Murphy, who had gotten up and tottered away, fumbling with the front door key, gritting, "He's getting away."

Kate just smiled. "I don't think so..."

"Mmpft," said Patty. Rick punched him one last time for good measure.

Murphy was half out the front door, then stopped and raised his hands, backing into the kitchen again, mumbling, "I'm just an old man. I haven't done anything."

Jackson Hunt stalked forward, a gun to Murphy's chest. He said cheerfully, "That's never stopped me before."

"Hey," Castle said. He was still a bit breathless and riled up, trying to calm himself. "That's not what we're here for."

Hunt grinned down at his son. "Well, at least you got to beat someone up."

"He hit me first," Rick whined. Kate pulled a chair out, and Hunt cuffed Murphy to it.

They heard Esposito pounding on the back door. "Police. Open up."

Kate called out, "It's okay, Espo, stand back and we'll let you in." While Castle sat on Little Patty – mostly for the satisfaction, since he really was out cold – Kate opened the back door, and Ryan and Esposito came charging in. She spoke to Esposito. "Gashkouri's upstairs. Back her up."

Rick's eyes were a little glazed. Still down on the floor, he stared up at Kate and choked, "I should've just tased him."

Ryan searched Little Patty for weapons and ID, finding Gashkouri's gun tucked into the back of his waistband. It was loaded, but nearly impossible to access through the clean-suit. "Tasing doesn't always work with the big guys. Pounding the crap out of him... probably a longer-term effect," Ryan observed. They positioned him so that the blood running out of his nose and mouth wouldn't cause choking. Ryan repeated what he and Esposito had discussed previously: "Hey, Castle, remind me not to make you mad. Ever."

Castle stared down at his left hand. The knuckles had opened up again, and this time his hand ached. He hadn't held back.

Kate started to say, "We should bandage that..." when Betsy came barreling in the front door, trailing her leash and a piece of laurel bush, baying joyfully, running circles around Rick, then into the front parlor, her feet up on the window sill, halfway up the stairs to the second floor then back into the kitchen to circle the table, jumping over the prone body of Patty Halloran, and into the basement to find Tiffany, finally. _"Tiffany, Tiffany, Tiffany!"_ The dog practically flew down the stairs.

There was a scream and a yelp, then Betsy started up an awful yammering cry.

* * *

**9:16 a.m., Greta's Room**  
Esposito heard two women talking, and stood at the door to Greta's room, just leaning against the frame. Ameena Gashkouri was standing by the manger, slowly removing the veils and robes from the Virgin Mary, and Greta was prattling on.

"...certain it is her. See her teeth? Just like yours, and look at the delicate structure of her browbone." Greta smiled. "Of course, I made her paler and bleached her hair blonde, since the Virgin Mary was white, but she did have such lovely features, and I tried to capture them as well as I could."

Ameena turned from the mummified, wax-encrusted face of her mother, to the woman who had so blithely turned her body into an unintentionally racist craft project.

"Were you with her? When she died?"

Greta shook her head regretfully. "No, dear. I was acting as her decoy, flying to London on her passport, four seats over from Richard Castle. I returned on my own German passport, and then when I got home, they gave me this to play with."

"They?"

"Michael and Joseph. Murphy."

"They killed her here?"

Greta nodded. "In the basement. I reconstructed her face based on her passport picture. Isn't she beautiful?"

Gashkouri's hands clenched at her sides a moment, and then she looked over at the doorway. She stared blankly at Esposito, and then seemed to realize he was actually there.

"If he comes here, don't let my brother in this house," she gritted.

Esposito nodded. "We told him to wait in the van."

* * *

**9:16 a.m., Murphy's basement. **

Betsy's crying grew into a howl of pain. "Oh God, no!" Rick ran into the basement to find Tiffany in a corner, still crouching behind her spiked lion-tamer's chair, crying hysterically, and Betsy creeping back, limping and bloody, pawing at her eye. Tiffany had taped a 2-quart stainless bowl to her head, fastened it under her chin, and also made a sort of sandwich board out of a couple of metal baking sheets, front and back. Really, for makeshift armor, it was kind of clever – better than some of the things Rick had seen at Renaissance Faires.

"I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!" Tiffany babbled. "Ohmigodomigodomigod!"

Kate was right on Rick's heels. "What's – oh, no."

She hurried to Tiffany, who had her eyes closed, crouched in the corner, with the chair's legs out in front of her and its back over her head, her elbows by her shoulders, her grip the iron of panic.

Rick said, "It's okay, Tiffany. You're safe now. Beckett's here." Seeing Beckett caring for Tiffany, Castle bent over Betsy. 'Hey, Betsy. Hey, little girl. You're okay." Betsy was whining in agony, and he had trouble preventing her from pawing at her face. It was badly cut, and she had possibly lost an eye, though it was hard to tell for all the blood. Being a dog in pain, she was panicking.

Tiffany was keening. "I'm so sorry. I was so scared, I... oh, my God, she's bleeding!"

Kate said, "Can you put the chair down?

Tiffany peered wildly out at Kate and shook her head, staring in misery at the crying, wounded hound.

Some lion tamer. Best intentions. Mice and men. Whatever. Things screw up sometimes. Kate spoke again to Tiffany. "If it makes you feel safer, you just stay there, okay?"

"Kate," Rick said calmly. "Do you have that other handkerchief?"

"Of course I do," said Beckett. "When I got back to the hotel room I washed it out and hung it over the shower rod."

She handed the handkerchief to him, and he smiled at her gratefully. "I love you more every day," he breathed.

She nodded and knelt by him. "I'll muzzle her, you hold her steady," she said.

Kate's touch was light, but poor Betsy moaned and cried, yet kept enough presence of mind not to snap as Beckett made a lightweight muzzle.

Rick said, "This is almost as bad as the ending to Old Yeller. Tiffany, what happened?"

Tiffany's voice was small and thick with tears. "You told me to make some armor, so I did. I heard you guys fighting but I didn't know... I didn't know who would win, you know? So I just stayed down here. I heard the police come and I was gonna come up but I thought it might be a trick so I brought the chair, and then the poor dog just came flying down the stairs at me, she didn't see..."

Castle said, "This is my fault. I should have thought..."

Kate said, "I should have caught her leash. She was overexcited."

Tiffany said, "I'm so stupid."

Castle said, "My mother always told me that when you feel like hammered shit, the best thing you can do is help someone else."

Kate looked askance at him and murmured, "She told you that?"

"More or less," Castle whispered back.

Kate frowned and applied pressure to the wound with a clean towel (the linens in this house were completely forfeit as far as Kate was concerned). "She's really bleeding." Betsy whined, and Rick stroked the dog, trying to comfort her. It was heartrending.

Tiffany set down her chair and approached, her face the picture of misery. "Oh, you poor thing," she whispered, teary-eyed. "I'm so sorry, puppy." Then her expression grew resolute and she took off her stainless mixing-bowl helmet. "I'm a student veterinary assistant, you know," she said. "Help me with this tape." Kate grabbed a spare knife and carefully snapped the tape, helping Tiffany out of her makeshift armor.

Rick spoke to Tiffany. "What should we do?"

"Let's get her up on the table."

Kate helped Rick lift the dog. He'd carried Betsy just the night before, but then she'd wanted it. Now she was a dead weight of 80 pounds coming up off the floor, and he already ached all over from the fighting and scooting his butt down the stairs. He groaned a little. Tiffany found a clean towel and spread it out to keep the dog off the cold stainless steel surface.

Tiffany said, "Put her on her right side so I can examine the left."

Rick looked around and found rubber gloves and wipes. "Give Murphy credit, his butcher shop's clean as an operating room."

"Butcher shop?" Kate said.

Tiffany said, "Can you get a first aid kit and a needle and thread? Maybe Ms Crisco has a curved one." She looked over the wound, trying to get it clean while Kate held Betsy as still as possible. "Maybe some ice, too."

Rick went to one of the large freezers, opened the door, and slammed it shut. His eyes wide, his face chalk-white, he huffed out a breath.

"No ice," he rasped. He shook himself, pulled himself together. Now was not the time to fall to pieces. Others had done that job for him.

"Maybe some drugs? Local or sedative?"

Rick nodded, then added sarcastically, "Gee, I wonder if they have any drugs." He stepped back out of the basement to find Matt had just come through the front door. He asked Murphy where to find the first aid kit, then bade Matt follow him to the downstairs hall bathroom. "Betsy's hurt herself. Where were you?"

Matt shrugged, his face flaming with embarrassment, and took the opportunity to wash his hands with soap. "Had to see a man about a dog."

Rick would have laughed under any other circumstance. "Well, you go down to the basement and tell that dog you're sorry. You ever dress a field wound?"

Matt nodded and sighed. "Yeah, but I'm not a medic."

"Tiffany's got some veterinary training. She might know what she's doing. Then again, she might not," said Rick. "I'll meet you there in a minute." He headed up the stairs, while Matt went down.

Passing the kitchen table, Matt noticed the plate of bacon, and was just about to reach out for a piece when Hunt said, "Don't even think about it."

Murphy chuckled nastily. "Damn."

•

* * *

**9:20 a.m., Greta's room**  
The room was fully lit, with every horror plain as day and somehow ordinary and worse in the light of economy fluorescent bulbs. When Rick arrived, Esposito glanced over at him, his face grey with shock. Castle made an incomprehensible mime gesture and ducked into Greta's bathroom. There he found a veritable trove of medications – some of them possibly stolen – many of those not stolen prescribed by one Dr. Kelly Nieman. He threw them all into a basket decorated with dusty, fake hydrangea blossoms. Stepping back into Greta's room, looking more closely at Gashkouri, he said, "Did you find what you needed?"

Agent Gashkouri's face was the picture of professional calm on the surface, but her eyes were dull with pain. "No, but I found what I was looking for."

"I'm so sorry," Rick said. She could tell he meant it, and she nodded wordlessly.

He added to Greta, "I need a curved needle and some nylon thread."

"What for?"

"Sew up a cut."

"Oh, upstairs, in the little plastic drawer unit. Top middle, there are curved needles. I used one on Arne."

"I'll sterilize it," he said

Gashkouri turned back to Greta. "I'm going to arrest you, now."

Rick passed Esposito on his way out, and Espo patted him on the shoulder, whispering, "Good work, bro."

_Bro. "_Watch it," Castle said quietly. "That woman is a lot more dangerous than she looks." Esposito nodded, and Rick continued up to the attic to get needle and thread, this time making sure he turned the stairway light on.

Greta's proud smile fell. "But I saved her. For you. She'd be nothing but a pile of bones, and of course little Jesus there, he'd be all alone..."

"If you'd actually _saved_ her and little Jesus there, I'd have a mother and a little brother," Gashkouri glared.

"I _did_ save them. In the best sense of the word. They're in the arms of God on High."

Gashkouri closed her eyes a moment, staving off rage and frustration. Javi stepped in. "I'm here to assist Agent Gashkouri with your arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Is that how it goes here?"

Ameena nodded absently, and wearily rattled off the rest of the Irish version of Miranda rights, her eyes never leaving her mother's corpse. She looked down at the mummified baby, and her whole body seemed to spasm. Esposito's hand was tight on her shoulder.

•

* * *

**9:22 a.m., Murphy's Attic**  
Rick continued to the attic and found a curved needle and some strong nylon thread. He smelled something chemical – maybe burning plastic – but he was in a hurry and saw no smoke, so he dashed back down to the basement. He left the attic door open behind him. The hot glue gun, which someone (nobody's sure who) had knocked over, had burned through its own wiring. The wiring sparked, and since it was a cheap knockoff and wasn't plugged into a GFI, bad things started to happen. (You realize of course that this is an understatement.) The updraft from the stairs carried the little flame into a pile of ribbon, and the flame spread into the stacks and shelves of fabric, then pieces of ember floated down to the carpet, and soon the bejeweled angel was fully engulfed in a glorious blaze, followed by Greta's little German domicile and the collection of bones. Which is why you should never buy a glue gun not listed with Underwriters' Laboratories.

The constellation of Christmas lights (also cheap ungrounded knockoffs) flashed out as the breaker blew.

* * *

**9:22 a.m., Greta's Room**

The lights in Greta Schirrmacher Kristow's room went out, leaving two officers, one nutcase, and several bodies in dusty shadows.

They heard an odd sound in the distance: POFF. Then PAFF, and _FOOMP_. Loud noises, but muffled. Esposito wrinkled his brow, the sound familiar and terrifying but out of place. "IEDs?"

He hurried to the window and peered out cautiously. There was a crunchy, gravelly, tinkling sound, and slate tiles showered down off the roof above them, followed by a fireball about two feet wide. It crashed down to the ground, spewing flames on the walls of the house, then bounced on the pavement only a couple feet from the SUV.

Gashkouri said, "What the hell?"

Neither of them knew that the attic was full of flammable art supplies, including cans of spray paint, spray adhesive, tubes of solvent-based glues, turpentine, 99% alcohol, mineral spirits, and all kinds of plastic. Upstairs, small bombs were going off, but because of the updraft, nobody smelled any smoke (not even Betsy, who was dreaming about flying squirrels and having her face stitched up very neatly by Matt, assisted by Tiffany). And because Michael McGowran had intended the old house to burn down eventually anyway, he hadn't installed sprinklers.

Esposito stepped out of Greta's room and looked down the hallway. A few cinders from the conflagration above had skittered down the stairs, and bounced onto the hallway carpet.

"FIRE!" Esposito bellowed. "We gotta move. Now." He turned to Greta. "You have an extinguisher?"

A 2-gallon can of alcohol-based primer blew its lid with a PUNG! Thwak! The lid hit the roof, and _**WHOMP**_ the fumes from the primer exploded. Esposito felt a slight shock wave. He ran to the attic door and closed it, hoping to both reduce the updraft and the rain of sparks down the stairs. He stomped on the little circles of blaze forming around the embers on the hallway carpet.

"I think I have one around somewhere," Greta called out vaguely. She rummaged in her desk drawer.

Esposito said, "It can't be in there!"

She handed a binder to Gashkouri. "This is my inventory," she smiled. "Everyone's in there. Establishing provenance. Passports, identification... I got these wonderful little pockets to organize it all..."

Gashkouri seemed to understand. "Javi, you get her out of here. Take the binder, too. It's evidence." She grabbed Greta's duvet, and spread it on the floor. Then she took up the baby and set his body in the middle. Trying to lift her mother's body off the stand, Ameena grunted in frustration, the sobs now wracking her. "Come on. Come on, goddamn it." The shoulder crosspiece was a little too high for her to get leverage.

Javi tried to push Greta toward the hallway. "Go on down," he said. She shook him off and pulled Arne, the leather man, out of her bed and carried him with relative ease to the doorway, his long, sausage-like legs dragging on the floor.

Javi said, "Leave that, it'll only slow you down."

Greta smiled. "Polyster fiberfill. He's very light."

Javi returned to Ameena, set the binder on the blanket, bracing the baby, then said, "Okay, you hold the stand steady, I'll lift her up." With a tug, the late Mrs. Gashkouri's body came loose, and her leg dropped off, tangling in her robes. It smelled like rot, and felt like it was made of sticks and cobwebs, and he couldn't look at the face as the delicate neck gave way and the head slumped against his shoulder, its dyed golden curls bouncing gently. They laid the body on the duvet and rolled it up, the baby at the center, and then each grabbed an end, and they carried the funerary roll down.  
•

* * *

**9:24 a.m. Murphy's house, First Floor**  
Ryan met them at the base of the stairs, his face an almost-comical blend of worry and relief. He was carrying a satchel with Murphy's desktop computer under one arm. He guided them to the back door, where they now heard the fast approach of sirens. Castle met them, for some reason carrying a couple of large aluminum baking pans, whose use was made clear by the shelter they gave as pieces of roof and exploding art supplies rained into the back yard. Ryan and Castle covered Espo and Gashkouri to shield them and their burden from the falling roof slates, sharp as stone Frisbees as they spun to earth. A couple of embers fell onto the duvet, through the gap between the two pans, and Castle brushed them away.

Zameer Gashkouri had moved their father's delivery truck – containing all of John Halloran's worldly goods and his filing system about the team of serial killers – forward about fifty feet, a bit past the backyard and safe from the blast zone. And their other van was just past it, the back wide open, the elephant god beckoning with uplifted trunk, happy to remove all obstacles. Beckett, Tiffany, and Betsy in her carrier were already inside. Castle and Esposito lifted Mrs. Gashkouri's body into the truck, and Ameena hurried to her brother, hugging him. "I found her," she said.

He said, "Where is she?"

"Her body's rolled up. In there." She pointed to the duvet roll, deciding to wait on telling him their mother had been pregnant when she was murdered.

Zameer said, "I don't believe it. I wanna see..."

Esposito said, "I've seen it, and trust me, you don't want to. Not here."

Castle's face was full of sympathy, then puzzlement. "Wait, I thought you'd - that's not Greta?"

Esposito said, "No. Maybe she's out front. I told her to get out." He phoned Hunt, who was out front with Matt, watching over Danny Halloran and Joseph Murphy, who were securely cuffed and tied up separately in back of the SUV. Matt and Jackson were keeping the street clear, and waiting for the fire trucks and Gardai to arrive at any moment. They could hear the barking and howling of seven very excited dogs in the distance.

"Hey," Esposito said. "Is ol' Greta with you? She's wearing a nightgown and carryin' a creepy doll... Like... Thing."

"No," Hunt said. He addressed Murphy. "Is there a woman named Greta inside the house?"

Murphy chuckled softly. "Huh. Most likely."

"Well, where do you suppose she is?" Hunt pressed angrily.

"I dunno. Patty, you guess Greta's up in the attic?"

Patty shrugged, his voice nasal from the blood backed up in his sinuses. His eyes were swollen shut. "Guess so."

Hunt cursed and started to hurry into the house. Fortunately Greta had the sense to die screaming just then, leaping from a hole in the roof in her nightgown, the flames flaring out like the robes of an angel.

Her smoking corpse lay splattered on the pavement, with Matt, and even Hunt, speechless a moment with shock. Hunt spoke into his phone. "We, uh, found her. She's... out. So to speak."

Murphy's nostrils flared. "Smells like ham."

"Eh, fuck off," snorted Patty. A bubble of bloody snot popped in his nose. He sat there trying to decide whether to sniff it in or blow it out. He considered this a pretty miserable turn of events. Nobody offered him a handkerchief.  
•

* * *

**9:25:18 a.m., Side Street**

A copter flew over the DART tracks and west toward the cemetery only a few blocks away.  
Standing next to the SUV, Hunt smiled up at the sky and said, "There's our ride."  
•

* * *

**9:25:18 a.m., Back Alley**  
Back in the alley, Castle smiled up at the sky and said, "There's our ride."

He turned to Gashkouri and enveloped her in a big hug, which she belatedly returned in utter surprise. He continued, "Your brother's going to drop us off at the cemetery to meet the copter. You can keep the SUV and everything in it..."

Wearing Tiffany's steel-bowl-and-tape helmet, Matt passed them and relayed a message as he spoke on the phone, his voice echoing oddly against the metal surface. "Mo's in the copter with Agent Soames, and Rourke's at the end of the street, heading in. Good luck explaining - all … that!" He vaguely indicated the burning house, and climbed into the back of the van. He peered into Betsy's crate. She was still drugged asleep, reasonably well sewn-up, bandaged, and feeling no pain. As a bonus, she still had both eyes. Not that she used them much anyway.

Gashkouri spoke first to Castle, "Thank you." Then she turned to everyone in the van. "Thank all of you."

Kate had her arm around Tiffany, whose head was on her shoulder, passed out in exhaustion. Kate looked rather like she needed to cry but had no intention of doing so. Ryan gave her a cheery wave and a "Good luck!"

To her surprise, Esposito climbed back down out of the van and walked over to shake her hand, but it didn't feel like an entirely businesslike shake to her. His brown eyes were kind, his smile sincere. "It was nice working with you," he said. "You're a good cop." He glanced at the rolled duvet. "You call if you want to talk, okay?"

Ameena nodded, overcome. He kissed her on the cheek and walked away, climbing into the back of the van with the others.

* * *

**9:28 a.m., Back Alley**

Sammy went to the passenger seat and climbed in, waiting to start the engine, his expression hazed with the newly-reopened wound of grief. Castle smiled down at Ameena, but it was a sad smile. "You have a long road ahead of you. A lot of paperwork, a lot of digging... your forensics team is gonna have a field day with that house, and there were rooms I never even went into."

"McGowran had the other holdings, too. Will you come back to help?"

"I'll probably have to. But for now, keep our involvement to an absolute minimum. You never saw us here, you never saw Tiffany here, and you just found the place like this when you arrived. Correct?"

"I understand." Ryan handed her Murphy's computer, from which he had duplicated all the salient – and sordid - details onto a backup drive. Sirens were growing louder. "Thanks. I have to go."

* * *

**9:29 a.m, Side Alley.**

Ameena Gashkouri grabbed a pan and held it up over her head. She hurried past her father's van and encountered Jackson Hunt, wearing an actual hard hat and probably a fireproof jacket, looking every inch the very prepared secret agent he was.

He spoke in passing as he tossed her a set of keys. "There's a lot of toys in the SUV, just ping me if you need help working anything."

She nodded, "Thanks again."

"Also call me when you get tired of being yanked around by that Agency of yours. I might have a job for you. One where you're not treated like crap."

Agent Gashkouri stared a moment. "Really?" But "Jackson Hunt", as the Commander referred to himself for this operation, kept walking

She hurried on through the gate, and stood by the SUV full of the two crestfallen serial killers.

A Dublin City Gardai car had picked Rourke up from the helicopter at the cemetery. Closely followed by several more patrol cars, a coroner's van, and a couple of fire trucks, it arrived first, pulled up, and stopped before the smashed, smoking heap of dead Greta. A swarm of emergency personnel set about putting out the fire, managing the body, and cordoning the area.

Rourke stepped out on the passenger side and shook her hand briefly. "Gashkouri. Never thought you'd pull this off," he said.

She made a mental note to email Hunt once all the fuss had died down.

•

* * *

**9:29 a.m., The Back Way Out**  
Meanwhile, Zameer Gashkouri's delivery van drove out the narrow back alley, through the wooden gateway they'd broken down, and down the back road, then onto the main road, heading toward the cemetery. Suddenly Tiffany screamed "Oh, my God, _Fabio! _I have to go back!"

She pleaded with Zameer. "Stop the truck, it's my cat, I let him out, oh, my God, he could be anywhere..." she was crying.

"Cat?" said Esposito. "You're kidding, right?"

Castle said, "You let him out of the house, right? He can't have gone far. We can have the locals keep an eye out for him. He'll be safe."

"_No!" _Tiffany was actually hysterical now, more upset than she'd been at any time at Murphy's. "He's my baby! I can't leave him, _I can't_, don't do this to me!" She unbuckled her seat belt and tried to open the door.

Ryan said, "Wait, what kind of cat?"

"Black and white. Short hair. He's kind of small, he's only a few months old."

Zameer pulled the van over. "Now you knock that shite right off, lady, or one of these cops will make sure you do." He didn't mind hauling stuff around, but he really hated the responsibility of having a bunch of live people, a dog, and apparently his mother's body in the back of his van. They had turned back south on the main road on their way to the cemetery, and just passed the unnamed street with the chaat house.

Hunt, in the passenger's seat, pointed up into a tree and chuckled. "Will that one do?"

Twelve-year-old Jaimini Rajawat was sitting about halfway up the tree, reaching up to a small bundle of fur in the finer branches near the top. Below stood his sister, her hands on her hips, yelling up at him. Zameer rolled down his window and smiled at Yasha. "Hey. Is that your cat?"

"Oh, hey there. No, it is that stray which your dog was chasing."

"Not my dog," said Zameer.

Tiffany peeked out the window. "Oh, migod, that's him. Fabio!"

Fabio said, "_Yew?_"

Castle said to Tiffany, "You wait here."

He got out of the van and positioned himself under the tree, speaking up to Jaimini. "Can you reach him?"

Jackson chuckled and called out. "Son, have you ever seen the skeleton of a cat up a tree?"

"No, but we're in a hurry."

Jaimini said, "He keeps hanging onto the tree. I can't climb down and hold him at the same time."

"Well, jump then. I'll catch you. There's a clear space here, between the branches."

Kate called out, "Are you sure that's such a good..."

But before she could even get it out of her mouth, the boy had grabbed the cat, climbed down as far as he was able, and jumped the last seven feet. Castle caught him with a grunt and an "ow". He pointed to the van. "Can you, uh, bring the cat over there?"

Jaimini carried the struggling Fabio (who was really having one hell of a day, and it wasn't over yet) to the van. Hunt took the cat and swung him around into Tiffany's waiting arms, and she burst into tears again. The wide-eyed cat clung to Castle's turtleneck in terror, the girl cooing and stroking his bristling fur.

Castle picked something up off the ground then returned to the back of the van, and pulled the door closed behind him. He patted Kate's knee with his right hand. His left was pressing hard on his nose.

"Hey," she said. "What happened to your cast?"

He produced the taser mechanism and a couple of pieces of shattered cast out of his pocket. "Guess I didn't need it anymore."

She took his hand and kissed it. "Guess not."

She handed him a tissue. He rolled it and stuffed it up his nostril. "Romantic, huh?"

•

* * *

**9:34 a.m., Dublin Cemetery**

Still sedated and safe in her comfy, padded crate, Betsy didn't notice the van turning in through the cemetery gates, or her crate being carried by Ryan and Esposito. She didn't notice being loaded onto a helicopter. She barely recognized Mo's beloved voice as he exclaimed over her in love and concern then yelled at Castle and Matt, calling them names that they accepted, shamefaced, just hoping he'd eventually forgive them.

She slept obliviously through the short, thumpingly loud copter flight halfway across a tiny, green country. She snoozed comfortably right through the transfer to a private jet at Shannon Airport (which has a bit less traffic than Dublin). And she slumbered peacefully through the short flight to Iceland, the refueling, and the longer flight to New York, and the SUV-ride back to Manhattan.

Betsy was having the time of her life, her long ears acting as wings as she flew over a green meadow full of rabbit holes. The rabbits were dancing in an intricate circular pattern that any art historian would have recognized as an illustration from the Book of Kells. An astute choreographer would immediately recognize that pattern brought to life by the Busby Berkeley Dancers. Eventually the rabbits turned to dolphins and fish and mermaids, leaping over the cold, salt ocean, nuzzling with polar bears and slapping their wet tails against the flanks of a mighty volcano, then riding short, shaggy ponies across glaciers, juggling tiny balls of moss in their giant paws.

Mostly Betsy dreamed that everyone she loved was safe, and nothing could have made her happier.

Some people dream in black and white. Some dream in color. Betsy inhaled a million molecules from the landscapes over which her team flew. She dreamed in shades of gray and blue, yellow and green, in emotions, and smells, smells, smells. Any neurologist would have laughed her dreams off as random firing of the scent processing neurons in a dog's brain. Any neurologist who didn't know squat about dogs, or dreams, or art, or dancing, or rabbits, or love.

* * *

I hope you found that worth the wait. :-) Please, if you run into discrepancies or feel anything could be trimmed, run it by me. It's all very clear in my head but we all know that sometimes the head-to-page-to-reader transition is bumpy. Thanks! -CharacterDriven


	54. Chapter 54

A/N –  
1) Deepest apologies that it's taken so long to upload this chapter. I knew from the beginning (a year ago) where this story wanted to go, but there is a lot of denouement normally left out of movies and TV, and to me, the aftermath of earth-shattering events is really the most interesting part (take for example, Kate's long healing process over her mother's murder and her own shooting. We could think of either of those events as the climaxes of her life, and everything else their epilog.) Anyway I've struggled endlessly with what I want to tie up and what I want to leave loose, and how I want to get to the real end of the story. Special thanks to Aseem for beta reading (very helpful!) and to jmbatt &amp; RS for the persistent nudges. Also to DIA for the simply epic prompt at the very beginning.

2) Where Kate's age is cast in stone because of her mother's death when she was 19, Castle's age has been portrayed inconsistently. Rick's referred to as "late thirties" in S7. Others have cited a 1969 birth year. Nathan himself was born in spring of 1971, and Stana in 1974. If we go with Alexis' birth as 1995, that works comfortably with his being 24 at her birth (he'd be just done with putting himself through college). Susan Sullivan was born in 1942, which made Martha old enough at 29 to seriously consider taking on single motherhood just as women's liberation was in full swing. So my own head-canon is that Castle was born in 71, making him about 8 years older than Kate, and exactly the age of my favorite actor. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

3) I was up most of the night finally posting it, and of course the next morning I found some errors, so I hope this is the one you're reading. And if it's not the one you're reading, how will you know? Are we in an AU? This is turning into a Shrodinger's Cat sort of story... ;-)

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 51 - Up In The Air  
**

**July 4, 10 a.m. EST., Shannon Airport **

Matt took on the copter pilot duty from Teresa and got Castle's team into the sky without so much as a bump. The copter's passenger cabin was another story when Fabio tried to rip his way through Tiffany to get away from the Thumping Rotors of Imminent Demise. Ryan nabbed a sweatshirt out of his duffel and swaddled the kitten. Tiffany's paper clean-suit pants were shredded, so Esposito lent her a pair of his navy blue 12th Precinct sweats in men's size medium. They didn't fit quite right, but it was better than nothing. Zameer had sent along a bag of treats from the chaat house, and Tiffany wolfed down two still-slightly-warm samosas and a pint of sweet, milky chai in the helicopter on the 20-minute ride from the cemetery to Shannon airport. The kitten squalled the whole way. They landed on a side airstrip and had only a quick shuttle ride with all their gear, meeting up with an anonymous-looking white jet on the tarmac.

Rick turned to Matt. "Did you order this?"

Matt shrugged. "Nope. I thought you did."

Rick stopped, alarmed. "Dad? Did you charter the jet?"

Hunt scowled. "Nope."

Teresa sashayed past them. "Thought we'd do it in style on the way back."

Matt said, "Ooh. Please tell me I get to pilot."

"I'd be lying," she grinned. "You get to watch an in-flight movie and nap."

The flight attendant, Marisol, slightly resembled Sophia Loren, only more buff than voluptuous. She met them at the bottom of the stairs with a smile, and pre-directed Rick and Kate to the master suite near the tail. Teresa introduced them to Captain Mitford and his copilot, Robertson. Both were obviously ex-military (if not currently in some shadowy branch of it).

The hardest part would be getting the Very Groggy Doggy, Betsy, in her bulky crate, up the jet's steep and narrow stairway. Just as Esposito and Ryan were about to wrestle her up, a couple of porters arrived and did the job with no visible effort.

•

The Gulfstream G550 is a swanky aircraft, the kind used by sultans, diplomats, rock stars, and basketball teams. The jet's plain but sleek exterior belied the luxury inside. Its interior was outfitted in cream leather, polished cherry wood, and the occasional accent of juicy red-orange or subtle taupe, with marble and stainless steel utility surfaces. The cabin offered enough headroom that even Hunt (who was 6'5" in shoes) didn't have to duck once inside the cabin. Kate and Teresa had taken a smaller jet from New York with this same crew; this was larger, and a step up in quality to accommodate the team.

Although Matt was trained to fly pretty much anything, including space shuttles, he knew better than to try to horn in on the action. But he peeked his head enviously into the cockpit, and introduced himself. Captain Mitford, who looked rather like Leslie Nielsen ("I get that a lot") gave him a little tour of the controls and specs, then waved him away with a smirk, and picked up the PA mic.

"Good afternoon, everyone, and on behalf of an agency which prefers to remain anonymous and not in any way associated with this operation, we'd like to welcome you aboard flight 001 bound for a small airstrip in upstate New York. We'll be cruising at about 40,000 feet, well above most turbulence, and we'll be in the air just under seven hours. Expected arrival is 6:54 pm local time. Please take a moment to familiarize yourself with the safety instructions. Feel free to ask Marisol, your flight attendant, bartender, and fully-armed air marshall, for any assistance."

The copilot added, "I'm copilot Bob Robertson, assisting Captain Mitford today. Safety protocol requires that the pilot and I lock the cockpit, so if you feel like hijacking this plane, please simply adjust your expectations, move safely to the rear airlock, and let yourself out. Mind the gap, and have a great flight."

Beckett rolled her eyes at Aunt Teresa, who smirked, "Bob was a bit rambunctious for Southwest."

Captain Mitford continued, "Your July Fourth weather will be humid with 80% chance of thunder showers after 10 p.m. We'll be flying above most turbulence, and landing too early to get shot out of the sky by an errant bottle rocket, so with any luck, we'll all make it home alive."

Tiffany looked around wildly and Teresa patted her shoulder. "It's all right, Sweetie. I'd trust these fellows to get us to the Moon and back."

Esposito added, "They wouldn't tease if they didn't think we could handle it." He looked a little green around the edges, but he wasn't about to admit to nerves.

Matt called out, "This is one of the best jets in the business. You won't even feel any change in air pressure. I know rock stars use this model, otherwise their ears get messed up and they can't hear for performances."

Seated next to Kate, Rick smiled in relief. "Good. My ears rang for two days after we landed in Ireland."

She reached to pat his hand, and he moved subtly, placing his own over her sleeve instead. He wasn't avoiding affection, but he was avoiding skin contact, and she wondered about it, but left it alone. They'd have time to talk in privacy later.

Mirasol demonstrated the official safety instructions. They all strapped in, and were lifted almost imperceptibly into the air. When the jet leveled out, Rick closed the opaque shade against the bright sun above the clouds.

She said, "I need to debrief Tiffany after takeoff. I won't be long." She anticipated a smart-assed reply from him, but he just looked apprehensive.

He bit his lip. "I have no idea what she's gonna tell you," he said. "But she's been through a lot."

Kate nodded and kissed his cheek. "You both have. It's over now. It'll be okay."

He looked like he wanted to nod agreement, but couldn't bring himself to do so.

Once they had reached cruising altitude, Kate used the master restroom, then she and Teresa met with Tiffany in the smaller "twin" suite for debriefing. Teresa sat at the writing desk, Kate cross-legged on the bed, and Tiffany took the divan by the window.

Kate handed her a plain purple backpack. "Your mom sent along a few things in case you need them."

Tiffany peeked in. "Oh, thank God, I can't wait to get out of this stuff..." Then she sighed and set it aside. "I'm probably too fat to fit in any of it."

"I doubt that," Teresa said. "You'll be fine."

Kate's tired smile faded. "We'll need to keep what you're wearing for evidence, and you shouldn't take a shower until the doctors have done an exam." She pointed to a large zippered evidence bag, where they had already stored Tiffany's ragged hazmat suit. "Just put everything you've been wearing in there."

Tiffany hung her head. "Yeah. I get it. Are you gonna be with me? When they do the exam?"

Kate shook her head regretfully. "No, kidnapping is FBI jurisdiction. We're being met by an FBI agent named Jordan Shaw. We've been friends for years. She'll get you to the hospital safely, and we've arranged for your folks to be there as well, if you like."

Tiffany raised an eyebrow and snorted. "Like, they'll be in the same waiting room? Together?"

Teresa smiled. "Apparently they're back on speaking terms."

Tiffany paused, contemplating that: "Weird." Then her mind returned to the upcoming medical exam. "So, will the doctor take samples off me or something?"

"For sexual assault? Yes. If you consent to it, an exam can really help build the case against them."

"It might not show much."

"They'll find whatever they find. And you can say no to anything if you feel it's too invasive."

Tiffany blew out a sharp sigh. "There's two rubbers in the trash basket... back there. In the basement. If you wanna match the DNA?"

Kate pulled out her phone. "I'll make sure they look for them." She texted Gashkouri.

Tiffany hesitated, her teary eyes gaze fixed on the floor. Then her voice shook out, "Um, Patty used one of them, but I was drugged. I don't know what he did. Rick, he used the other one."

Kate's face went white. She said nothing, just shot Teresa an anxious glance. Castle had kept his distance from both Kate and Tiffany since they all left the house, and Kate wasn't even sure whether Tiffany knew they were together. Teresa said, "By Patty, do you mean Daniel Halloran? The young man? Tall?"

"Yeah." Tiffany corrected herself, "Rick didn't _use_ _it_ \- use it. Didn't, you know. Wear it. He just slimed it up with some soap so if Murphy and Patty came in, they'd think, you know." She blinked and whispered, "He wanted them to think he was on their side. I didn't even know for sure. Things kept changing so fast."

Teresa took over, her voice motherly and cool. "Did Richard Castle touch you at all?"

"Well, yeah." Now she looked over at Kate and saw only a careful mask, and underneath it, the barest hint of horror. Tiffany added quickly, "But he didn't do anything creepy! He said we were on camera, tried to convince them he was gonna nail me. He even..." she started to cry. "They hung me upside down!, and he covered me up. For a minute I thought he..." She shook her head. "He didn't even check me out, just took out this hankie..." She made a gesture to her crotch.

Teresa handed her a tissue and confirmed, "So did he molest you in any way?"

"No!" Tiffany wiped her eyes. "He was kinda sweet. All he wanted was to get us out of there. Get back to you." She glanced at Kate, who suddenly looked like she was about to cry. "So don't freak out on him, okay? He really tried."

Kate bit her lip. "Thanks for saying that. They'll probably find his DNA all over the condom, so... that will save everyone a lot of trouble." She took a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and arose off the bed that she really wanted to just collapse into. "So, Tiffany, there are some very nice-smelling toiletries in the bathroom. Help yourself, and if you need anything, use the call button, okay?"

Tiffany nodded. "Hey, thanks for comin' to get me. I'm sorry I've been so much trouble." She looked around at the beautiful little cabin. "This must have cost a crap-ton of money."

Kate stooped and took the girl's hands. "You were worth every moment."

"And every penny, as well," Teresa beamed.

They left Tiffany to her own devices. She took a peek into Fabio's carrier. He had finally fallen asleep... just when she needed him. So she just went ahead and cried by herself. Maybe it was better that way.

* * *

•

After Kate left the master suite, Castle remained on the reclining chair across from the bed. Even though he was sitting up straight, his eyes drifted closed in his exhaustion, and immediately his mind was swarmed with faces, dead faces: the faces in the attic, the faces in Greta's room, the faces in the freezer... He forced his eyes open and stood up, radiating a blackness he just couldn't shake, and going into the bathroom, stripped and turned the shower on. Its suction drain made a nightmarish, screaming yowl, but that was fine, because it drowned out the sound of his weeping and a string of curses. He stayed in the shower longer than he should have, scrubbing himself repeatedly with expensive soap and a brand-new scrub brush, but it just didn't seem to help. Finally he gave up and dried off. Looking at himself in the mirror, he decided not to shave, and if his hands were shaking a little, that might have been part of the reason.

He hadn't been able to wash the horror away. He didn't want it anywhere near Kate. Didn't want her to see it in him.

•

Normally Matt would have been checking out every last available detail about the jet. But he was past caring. He had been running on railroad tracks with a bloodhound for much of the morning. Because of his military history, he could sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat. So, like Mo, with his job done, he crashed out cold pretty much the minute he fastened his seat belt. He dreamed of his wife, Chloe, as he did every night away from her, in a slinky white dress, letting off fireworks.

•

Ryan spent much of the flight texting (and he did spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom possibly sexting) with Jenny. The rest of the time he spent going back and forth with both Jordan Shaw and Victoria Gates, giving them an outline of what had happened over the past 24 hours. It is something of a miracle that, on no sleep and completely jet-lagged, he didn't accidentally sext them as well, although he did ask Captain Gates what she was wearing.

Her answering text was _"My badge. Why do you ask?"  
•_

Teresa Beckett stretched out in her leather recliner, snuggled in a beige Pashmina throw, popped in some noise-blocking earplugs, and put a lovely silk mask over her eyes. Nobody ever would have dared tell her that she snored. Just a little. In a dainty sort of way.

* * *

•

With Ireland an hour behind them, Tiffany should have been happy. She should have been tired, but after cleaning up, she just felt hungry and lonely. She watched an in-flight movie for a few minutes then gave up, came out of her little cabin, and plopped down in the communal area with Ryan and Esposito. "I am SO fat," she sighed. She looked down at her thighs. She poked hatefully at the soft flesh, and it jiggled apologetically, shrugging as if it didn't really want to be there.

From across the aisle, Ryan said, "Don't be so hard on yourself. You've been through a lot."

Tiffany looked miserably out the window. "When I get home, none of my clothes are gonna fit."

"When were you taken?" Esposito said.

"May 6 or so, I think." She shrugged.

"Today's July 4th."

"Really?" She looked horrified. "I was gone that long."

Ryan chuckled. "On the upside, what a great way to celebrate Independence Day."

Esposito said, "You've been gone what, about 8 weeks?"

"I guess," she sighed. "Aw, shit, I missed my cousin's graduation, and my mom's birthday..."

"So give yourself that much time to work it off. Stay out of the Twinkies and you'll be fine."

"I'm hungry again now, and I would _kill_ for a Twinkie."

Ryan and Esposito exchanged a little nervous look, and she said, "You know, not really kill, just..." She shrugged ruefully.

Marisol appeared as if by magic, handing them all menus.

_Afternoon high tea:  
cucumber sandwiches, potted meat on Irish brown bread,  
mushroom paté on crackers, smoked salmon crouquettes,  
cookies, petite-fours, meringues, and  
of course, tea, coffee, juice, mixed cocktails, or champagne._

No Twinkies.

Esposito took out his phone and punched around on the screen, then showed her a picture of a zaftig young woman with popcorn-colored hair. "Have you heard of Megan Traynor? I think this came out in June."

Tiffany shook her head, and he turned up the volume. "Come on, Ryan, help me out."

Ryan grinned at Tiffany. "What happens on Air Castle stays on Air Castle."

"Okaaayyyy," said Tiffany.

The two cops got up and were soon dancing and shaking their booties (such bootie as Ryan actually had) around the aisle, with Esposito singing in a falsetto and Ryan on backup, vogueing, Tiffany laughing so hard she cried.

_"you know I'm all about that bass, bout that bass, no treble..."_

They did this routine _five times. _On the second play she got up and joined them. On the third she had the words down and most of the moves. By the time they sat back down, she was breathless and sweaty and felt better than she had in weeks. Dancing with sexy, funny men will do that for you.

* * *

•

After debriefing Tiffany, Kate returned to the master cabin to hear the sound of the shower running. She collapsed into the bed without even undressing.

A while later, Rick stepped out wrapped in a towel, and paused, peering at Kate in the dim light. He was afraid to waken her; her face was pale with blue smudges under her eyes, a little frown between her brows. Had she really been kidnapped, been in a car accident, and saved him from serial killers, all in the space of twenty-four hours? It felt like months since he'd found her singing in the bathtub back at the Huntsman's Arms. Smiling sadly, he carefully spread a blanket over her, then made sure the belt was secured across her hips. Turbulence happens.

He dressed silently in jeans, a tee-shirt, and his spare shoes. _"No creepy staring,"_ he reminded himself. But stare he did, all the same, his eyes red from crying, seated on the divan by the window, watching her sleep. She wrinkled her nose and snuffled, then put a hand on her belly and brushed at it, as if a butterfly had landed. He wondered if the baby was large enough yet for her to feel movement.

Theoretically, no. But tell that to Small, who was using Kate's uterus as a jungle gym.

Rick thought, _"Next thing you know I'll be turning into a sparkly vampire."_ He left behind the quiet of the suite and was assaulted by the noise of Tiffany, Esposito, and Ryan dancing around and shaking their butts to Megan Traynor. He watched a moment in astonishment, and a half-amused, half-irritated smile crept over his face. The flight attendant, Marisol, caught his eye. "May I get you anything, Sir?"

"Rick," he said. "Call me Rick. Uh, I dunno." _World peace? A Valium?_

She kept it light, seeing something small and scared in his eyes, addressing the lost child underneath the skin. "Milk and cookies?"

He saw her bemusement and said, "Sounds about right. What's the weirdest thing anyone's ever asked you for?"

She gave it a moment's thought. "Let's just say that it wasn't legal, moral, ethical, or sanitary."

"Ick."

"You said it." She winked, then gestured to the galley area. "I'll be right back."

Rick walked over to the dining area and sat at the table, elbows-on, hands cradling his temples, eyes unfocused on the white tablecloth, obscured from the dance party by screens behind the booth-seat backs.

Hunt slid into the booth across from him. "Hell of a week, huh."

"Yeah."

"You're not doin' too well with this," Hunt said quietly.

"No, sir, I'm not."

"Good," Hunt said. "If you were feeling normal, I'd be worried. I've been watching the dispatches between Irish law agencies. It's starting to come up on news feeds now, too. They're already calling it The House of Horrors."

"Catchier than 'Domicile of Doom'."

"Yup." Hunt arched an eyebrow at the news feed and turned it so that his son could see a knot of reporters bristling their microphones at Agent Rourke. Rourke was posed strategically with the half-ruin of Murphy's house behind him, the area cordoned off and a street full of police cars, coroner's vans, a body-processing area tented with plastic, and workmen doing cleanup. Somewhere back in the ordered chaos, they glimpsed Ameena Gashkouri talking to a coroner with a clipboard, pointing at the house, shaking her head with a scowl. But Rourke took up the majority of the screen. Comfortable with the cameras, Rourke's demeanor betrayed nothing of the fatigue he must have felt, having worked almost 24 hours straight through. He announced, "Through a joint operation of Irish Intelligence and the Gardai, acting on an anonymous tip, two suspected serial killers were arrested this morning. An additional suspect apparently ended her own life by jumping from the roof."

A reporter asked, "Is it true that a group of American tourists helped out in the operation?"

"That is a rumor, and will require further investigation, as will this entire crime scene. No further questions."

The station switched over to a balding, lanky reporter in a trench coat. "Who would have known that a den of death and dismemberment lurked in this dilapidated urban domicile..."

Hunt chuckled. "You called it."

"It's a gift," Castle grumbled.

The reporter turned to a couple of middle aged ladies; the taller one had spiky blonde hair and a leather jacket. She controlled a group leash attached to six motley dogs. The other, a small woman in a brown tweed pantsuit, held a trembling, blind terrier. He held out his microphone. "Did you ever notice anything unusual at the house?"

The tweedy woman said, "Oh, they were friendly enough. They seemed a little odd, and the dogs wouldn't go near the old man."

"I always thought it was the accordion," said her partner.

"My employer owns the whole block and asked us to be a neighborhood watch. We've seen squatters, put out a few fires..."

The taller woman finished her sentence "...but on the whole, for this area of town, it's been rather peaceful about." One of the dogs got up and sniffed at the reporter's crotch. "OFF, DAISY. _SIT!_"

Hunt smiled grimly. "Let's see. Rourke taking all the credit."

"We asked him to."

Hunt pointed to Ameena Gashkouri in the background, talking patiently to a coroner. "And Gashkouri's doing her best not to look royally pissed."

"She lost her mom to those fuckers," Castle gritted.

"Yes, she did. I'm not forgetting that. None of us will."

"There's a lot I won't be able to forget."

"That's true. But you'll learn to live with it."

Marisol approached them with a tray: milk, freshly baked shortbread cookies with artisan-made raspberry jam and warm fudge for dipping; black coffee for Hunt. Castle straightened up and she gave him a brief, sympathetic smile. She didn't know what her passengers had been through – Agent Soames had not revealed it – but she could tell that it had been some kind of hell, and each expressed it in a slightly different way. These two men at the table before her, possibly father and son, looked as if they had the world's weight on their shoulders.

They turned to thank her with identical expressions: kind, weary, respectful. She could always tell people who'd worked in the service industry; no matter how far they came up the ladder, even to affording a private chartered luxury jet, they didn't treat her like shite.

"I'm here if you need me," she smiled, indicating the call button. "We'll be landing at the airstrip in a little under five hours. There's turbulence from local thunderstorms, so things might get a tad bumpy."

She left them, the slight scent of warm cookies now wafting through the jet, and moved through the impromptu dance party staged amongst the younger members of the team. Esposito took the music down to a dull roar and pouted affably, working the little-boy charm. "Any chance of more cookies?"

"I'm sure you've earned them," she laughed. "I'll bake up a few more."

•

Rick didn't take a bite, just inhaled the comforting smell and took a sip of the cold milk. "So they're in custody?"

"Yeah," Hunt said. "Halloran's kid, and Murphy. But the woman's dead."

"Greta." Rick frowned. "How?"

"Jumped from the roof. I guess the fire spooked her."

Rick nodded, "Maybe. She was beyond crazy though. Probably cavorting with angels just about now..." he grimaced bitterly.

"Do I detect sarcasm?"

"She liked to mummify people and... dress them up..."

Hunt sneered. "Ugh. How many did you see?"

Rick shrugged. "I'm sure the reports will give you a more accurate count, but at least... He drew a sharp, sick breath. "At least twenty." He added in a mumble, "Some kids. Mummies. Frozen, uh, pieces." He pressed his lips together, hard.

"News report says after they put the fire out, more than fifty bodies were found, and that's just in the house. They haven't started on the back yard yet." Hunt closed the laptop. To Rick's astonishment, his father's even-larger hands clamped over his. The thick fingers, so like his own, squeezed tight, and he held his son's agonized gaze. "You've seen a lot of dead people."

"Not, not like this."

"No two are ever the same, if there's anything decent about you." Hunt let go, and took a sip of water. "I've fought in five wars, if you count the cold one."

"Well, that just makes you better than me, doesn't it." Rick's throat burned with shame.

"_No._ You are a product of your time and place, son. The world's been hard on you in some ways, and soft in others. But you signed on to catch killers with no reward other than research."

Rick shook his head. "That's not true, not for a long time now."

"You could have been home swilling Jameson's and writing spy novels from your safe little corner of the world, but you're here. It's because you're able to see beyond your own nose, past the "me and mine" to something bigger. I have no doubt that, if things were different, you'd have put yourself on the line, been a fine soldier, an invaluable agent. But your catalyst wasn't a war. Not politics or money or fame. It was Kate."

Rick's bloodshot eyes burned into him, but he said nothing.

Hunt added, "You know, I was about to put in for retirement when I met your mother. That was in fall of 1970. _One night._"

Rick stared at him as if he were insane. "Retirement? Weren't you a little young?"

Hunt picked up a cookie, dipped it quickly in his coffee, and took a bite before it could collapse. "Really, you should try one while they're still warm. I enlisted in the Army, late in World War 2. 1946."

"World War..." Rick knit his brows.

"My first job was at Auschwitz. Basically to recover and bag bodies, get them identified if possible. In the case of our own soldiers, get them back home. I barely saw any action. Then after the war I stayed on in Germany, assigned to Marshall Plan enforcement. I moved up and became an MP, did that for several years. Then I came back to DC and worked security at a military hospital. One night we detected an intruder; I came into a classified lab to find the tables laid out with severely injured soldiers, all of them unconscious and hooked up to IVs. The lab had been ransacked. The medical staff were all dead. Then someone stabbed me from behind, and I passed out. When I came to, I was sick as a dog for weeks. The medical records, and whatever medicine they had been working on, were gone. All of the patients died when they were unhooked. But whatever was in the syringe..." he shrugged. "I'm no Wolverine, but I heal damn fast when injured and I haven't been sick since 1952."

"This explains how you were able to take that guy out in the library after a gunshot wound."

Hunt nodded. "The Agency recruited me shortly thereafter, and I've been a very useful asset, to my own detriment."

"Not just your own."

"Unfortunately true. Anyway, my point is, I've seen a lot of death. More than one lifetime's worth, and it's nearly broken me, more than once. Dachau, No Gun Ri Bridge, Mei Lai..." his voice trailed off. "I've cleaned up. I've trained others to clean up. I try to make sure this stuff will never happen again. But it always does, because the powers that be expect absolute obedience to the point where it breaks men and turns them into monsters."

There was something in Hunt's sheer weariness that made Rick believe him.

Hunt continued, "It took me fifty-three years to find the people who turned me into..." he gestured to his body, "_this_."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I saw the look on your face this morning, son, when you beat the tar out of Daniel Halloran. I've seen it in the faces of men who turned their guns on women and children, old people and baby animals. I've seen it in the mirror."

"You don't know..."

"_I do know." _Hunt took a sip of his coffee, but Rick could see his left hand was balled in a fist, his knuckles white. "You're sitting on an edge, waiting to fall off, and I tell you: you gotta choose to get back up and climb in through the window and stay sane. I sat in a bamboo cage in Cambodia for over two years, and do you know what got me through the mud and the shit and the smell of death and the screams of my friends being tortured?"

Rick shook his head silently.

"The memory of one night. Your mother. And when I was finally liberated, I came back to New York, looked her up, and there you were." Hunt swallowed. "The sweetest little boy with hair flopping in his eyes..." Hunt brushed a hand over his own eyes. "But I was such a mess. The nightmares, the paranoia, the sweats, the thoughts of suicide and the feeling I was just _poison_." His voice shook. "I couldn't go anywhere near you, either of you. But it renewed my dedication again, to do anything I could to protect you."

"It took Alexis being kidnapped to flush you out?"

Hunt nodded. "The more I learned about all of you, the less worthy I felt." His gaze wavered. "I tortured two men to find our little girl."

Rick whispered, "I... You weren't the only one. Beckett looked the other way. I'd do it again, and I hate myself for it."

"Don't," Hunt said. "That man signed up for it. It was war. Those bastards used Alexis to get to the Agency, through me. They knew what they were up against." He took a sip of coffee, his eyes even blacker than his beverage. "More or less."

"All's fair?" Rick said bitterly.

"No. Nothing's fair. Not in love, not in war."

"So how do I live with this?"

Hunt took a deep breath. "It's a process. You have to look it in the face... sorry. But that's really it. We are not the pile of meat and bone that's left at the end of the day, and that's what makes life precious."

"And if that's not enough?"

"Look, Son," Hunt said, "You're pretty exhausted and most of today is gonna be a blur, so I'll remind you to get help if you start to go off the deep end."

Rick said, "So, after we get back to New York?"

"I'll be sticking around, if your mother will have me." Hunt hesitated. "And if it's all right with you."

Rick picked up a cookie and dipped it in the fudge sauce, then took a nibble. The cookie had cooled, but the fudge was still warm. "Wow," he murmured, then took another sip of milk. From his expression, Hunt knew that his son didn't believe him.

"It would be fine with me," Rick said. "If you actually stayed."

Hunt nodded. "I understand."

"No, you really don't," Rick breathed.

"That's fair." Jackson cleared his throat. "I want to understand. Maybe someday I will."

Rick nodded. "We'll see."

"I'm gonna catch some shut-eye before we land," Hunt said. He arose, gave Rick's shoulder a brief squeeze, and headed back to his seat.

* * *

•

After the dance party and a batch of cookies, Tiffany and Ryan both napped a little while. Esposito's phone buzzed in his pocket. The text was from Lanie:

_"I hear you're all on your way back :-) Can't wait to see you, baby." _

He thought for a long time, and texted just about the stupidest thing: _"Be in NYC by 2nite. Need 2 talk." _

She texted back: _"K"._

Lanie was a damn smart woman.

He went to his duffel and pulled out a pack of cards, went over to the booth where Castle sat staring wide-eyed at an unfinished plate of cookies, and sat down.

Castle's face was pallid, his nose still a bit swollen from impacting with the Rajawat boy's shoe. His eye sockets looked more like bruises than his usual dark circles. He held up his damaged right hand, the lower arm pale and relatively wobbly, compared to his left. "You should probably shuffle."

Esposito pressed the call button. "You want a beer, man?"

"Nope. Promised not to drink till Beckett's... able."

"Mind if I do?"

"Not at all." Javi offered the deck for him to cut the cards, and he shook his head. "I trust you."

Javi gave him a brief, pained glance. "Good to know." His look was plain: _"I haven't always trusted you." _

They played a few hands, each lost in his own thoughts, barely speaking. Esposito said, "How long before you knew? About Beckett. You and her?"

Rick gave him an assessing glance. "You're thinking about Ameena?"

"That obvious?"

"Wasn't I? I mean with Beckett."

"Well, yeah."

Rick smiled ruefully. "Seems like everyone else figured it out before we did. I denied it to myself for a long time because she could be such a..." He chuckled. "I'm not so good at masochism. So, I guess it happened in stages. Thirty seconds. Two days. Three weeks. A year."

"What sealed it?"

"When her apartment blew up." His voice hitched. "When I was shadowing Sophia, I saw what explosives can do to a body."

Javi nodded. "So you knew what you might find." He did too. Pieces. Blackened, fried, bloody, pitiful, pieces. Sometimes it was worse to find someone still alive. Marisol stopped by to drop off Esposito's beer, but stayed out of the conversation.

"I couldn't _not_ go in, you know?" Castle discarded a card and picked up a new one. "Whatever I might find..." he stopped, staring at his new card, the Queen of Hearts. Amused, he turned it to show his friend. "She was the one. I just couldn't get her to see it."

Javi smiled gently. "You just gave away your hand, Bro."

_Bro._ Castle nodded and tilted his head. "So did you. Bro." He picked up a cookie and took a bite. "I think I like these better plain." A sip of milk. He was starting to feel slightly less horrible.

Espo said, "I gotta tell Lanie on my own. If she hasn't figured it out already."

"I know. She's … intuitive."

Javi chuckled. "Damn woman has eyes in the back of her head."

Castle shuddered involuntarily.

Esposito said, "Sorry."

"It's okay."

They barely kept track of the card game, not caring who was winning or losing, which must have been a first in their combined lifetimes. After cards, Marisol hooked them up to a Halo game, and they played for a couple of hours, getting sorely trounced because they were both so tired they kept screwing up and had to reset. After his fourth time getting blown to smithereens, Castle gave it up. He stood up, stretched and said, "I'm just gonna check on my girl."

Castle move to the cargo area and bend over Betsy's crate, then open the metal gate with a squeal of hinges. Esposito stared at him, puzzled, as his body disappeared into the carrier from the waist up. It wasn't exactly an easy fit.

As mentioned previously, Betsy spent almost the entirety of the trip in dreamland. But at this point, she smelled Castle (and milk and butter-shortbread cookies), and she opened one bleary eye to thump her sluggish, heavy tail when he reached in to caress her ears and jaw. He murmured, "How ya doing, Betsy?"

She couldn't answer, but she really did think it would be nice if he'd crawl into her crate for a cuddle. He seemed weary and sad, and she could smell residual fear on him, even though he'd had a shower. She dimly hoped he'd have the sense to go find Kate and get their pillow case all smelled up again. That's what she would have done. But, like all those silly short-nosed tailless monkeys, he needed to figure it out on his own while ignoring instincts for the ideas they so loosely termed as "facts". _Idiots_. Mostly lovable idiots, though that mean old man in the kitchen... not lovable. It was the first time Betsy had ever met someone who loved dogs, whom she absolutely could not like back. She'd just kept running, looking for Tiffany. And then the smells, all that death and fear, and the horrible slashing pain! Now her face felt sort of numb. She didn't like this at all.

She smacked her chops a couple of times and whined. Rick petted her again. "Shh. You're okay." His large, warm paw worked long, slow strokes down her side. Soothing. He hitched his upper body into her crate, hips and long legs sticking out the door, and laid his heavy head on her flank. She smelled exactly like a dog.

They closed their eyes and sighed. Rick might have fallen asleep a little, and might possibly have dreamed about squirrels.  
•

* * *

To his own amazement, Esposito had the grace not to take pictures of Castle asleep halfway into a dog crate. Marisol awoke Rick about twenty minutes before they landed, and he got up, staggered into the master suite, and gently roused Kate, shaking her arm through the light blanket until she stirred and smiled up at him. She drank a pint bottle of water and used the bathroom, and they strapped into seats for landing. She sat watching Rick, wondering why he seemed so remote, but she knew better than to pry until he'd had a little time to process what had happened.

The jet landed at an obscure airport somewhere near West Point. A fleet of black limousines and conspicuously nondescript SUVs awaited them. When the stairs hooked up to the exit, Rick looked down to see Jordan Shaw and Agent Baldwin at the bottom, awaiting them, along with several other spooks in suits. He turned to Marisol and the pilots, and thanked them, then he started down the stairs first, carrying his own duffel and Beckett's light travel bag over his shoulders.

"Careful, Rick," Marisol said. "They're steep, so use both hands."

At the bottom, he dropped the bags and drew the startled Shaw into a brief hug, then gave Baldwin a manly handshake. "We did it!"

Shaw grinned at him. "So you did. Where's Tiffany?"

"Beckett's up there in the cabin with her. We figured..."

"Yes," Shaw said, her face serious. "I should speak privately with her. Esposito filled me in a little, but..."

Castle said, "She's had a tough time. And I hope the cat isn't a problem."

Baldwin pointed up to the top of the stairs. "That's a dog."

Rick turned to find Mo hesitating at the top of the stairs. Marisol looked concerned, and Mo looked queasy. Maybe a few bumps of turbulence had affected him, or maybe he was still detoxing a bit from the near-death-by-shellfish. Castle hurried back up the steps and peered into the dog crate.

"Hey, Girl." Betsy raised her head a little, sniffed his fingers through the front of the cage, and thumped her tail.

"I think it'll be harder to get her downstairs in the crate than just carry her," Rick said.

Marisol said, "It's better to wait for airport staff, we can have a porter..."

Rick said, "She's injured, and she knows me." Mo nodded and helped Rick get her out.

Betsy said, "Moof." She staggered to her feet and Rick picked her up in his strong arms. She laid her head on his shoulder (wouldn't you?) and floated happily down the stairs. He smelled like mixed feelings: happiness, worry, grief, hope, anger, spent narcotics, clean skin but traces of blood and horror still on his shoes. She noticed then that he no longer had the liver damage she'd smelled when she first met him outside the bat cave. She wondered about that. She didn't know what Hunt had dosed him with, but sometime, _very_ long ago, Hunt had taken the same medicine, and it still lived in his marrow, extending his life far past what it might otherwise have been. She didn't really care about that, it was just another little sample in her landscape of trillions of scents. She only knew that her lovely Rick was now healthy as a horse, if dog-tired. At least he'd had the sense to nap with her a little. He was a smart boy.

Mo followed them down, keeping the slow and careful pace. Rick set Betsy down gently on the tarmac and handed Mo her leash when he came to the bottom. This smelled like goodbye, one of Betsy's very least favorite things. She gave Rick the Lean of "Can't we Just All Stay Together and Sleep in a Pile Like Civilized Dogs?" The confusion was hard for her. Rick had become Mo's alpha, and Matt's, which made him hers as well. She wondered if they were all going to go their separate ways and leave her off at the pound. Her tail didn't like that idea at all.

Shaw said, "Officer Atta, thank you so much for your service."

"Aw, Betsy did most of the work," Mo said. "And Matt."

Matt was coming down the stairs now, a bit stiffly, carrying his pack and Mo's, which he handed off at the bottom.

"Now what did I do?" Matt grinned.

Rick said, "The usual heroics. Ace Pilotry and the digging of latrines." Matt blushed red to his strawberry-blond roots, and Agent Shaw shook his hand.

She said, "I hear you really stepped up to the plate, Mr. Washington."

"Force of habit," he said gruffly. "Semper fi. All that."

Baldwin gave Matt a fist-bump. "Semper fi. Orange County limo's over on the left."

Rick said to Matt, "We'll meet you there in a bit."

Matt said, "I'll be napping in anticipation of napping." But he had his phone out, clearly talking to his wife as he walked away. "We just landed. Good. Maybe an hour. I can't wait either. No, I have a ride... Definitely Mexican food. Ireland is a tragic land. All green, no avocados. Yes, my love, ironic indeed."

One by one, Castle's team came down the stairs. Esposito and Ryan threw their luggage into Betsy's crate and hustled it all down, then made a beeline for the bottle of champagne awaiting them in the limo to Manhattan. Hunt was hot on their trail, carrying an immense pack on his shoulders. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused briefly to shake his son's hand.

"Good job."

Rick beamed. "Yeah? Couldn't have done it without you."

"You could've. But it would have been... different."

Hunt glanced at Shaw. She said, "We haven't met, have we?" None of the other agents were familiar with him. She wasn't about to let on what she knew.

He winked at her. "Now, wouldn't I remember that?" They heard laughter and the wet pop of champagne in the Manhattan limo, and he said, "Sounds like Dom Perignon." He headed to join up with Ryan and Esposito, and Teresa came down next. She smiled and hugged Rick.

"Now, you take care of our girl," she whispered.

He nodded. "You know it."

She gave a cool but pleasant wave to Shaw and Baldwin, and sauntered toward a little blue sportscar that nobody had noticed, parked in the shadow of the trees at the edge of the airfield.

She waved again as she drove away.

"Holy crap," whistled Baldwin. "That was a vintage Lotus Elan."

"Mint," said Castle, equally impressed.

Shaw went up the stairs, leaving Baldwin and Castle bereft of conversation, although they both pretended not to notice Jordan Shaw's very attractive figure as she climbed up to the jet. (Nope. Not looking. Professionals here.) A few moments later, Kate was at the top of the stairs, and Rick hurried up to her (incidentally somewhat blocking Baldwin's admiring view of her). "They're steep." He took her purse. "Hang onto the railings."

"Seriously, Castle?"

"Pregnancy can mess with your balance, you know."

She tilted her head. "Didn't I knock _you_ over just this morning?"

"Yeah." His mood deflated, he turned from her and headed down the stairs. "If you're gonna fall on anything, let it be me."

She followed him. "You're right, they are steep." Clearly there was a lot on his mind, and this wasn't the time or place to tease. She wondered when that time would come... and then she remembered how long it had taken her to recover from some of her own traumas.

He said, "How's Tiffany?"

"Shaw wanted to get Tiffany's version of the basics before they even get to the hospital."

Rick sighed. "I can understand that. Are her folks gonna meet her there?"

Kate nodded. "Yes, and then they're moving on to a safe house until we're sure the coast is clear."

Baldwin tucked his chin, the telltale sign of a person listening on an earbud. "Coming up," he said, and headed up the stairs after Beckett and Castle left them. They waited, Kate reaching over to tangle her fingers gently in Rick's.

He said quietly, "We need to talk. In private."

Nobody likes hearing those words. Ever. Kate felt a chill down her spine. "Okay." She glanced over at the limos. "Which is ours?"

He said, "That depends on you."

She gave him the Wrinkly Little Nose of Confusion. "How so?"

"I, uh, need time alone. To think."

"How much time?" Her head spun. She'd said it before and she'd heard it before. First WNTT, then TATT. Now here she was, almost three months' pregnant, and he was having second thoughts. Maybe backing out? Her stomach did a backflip.

"A day or so. I just - I can't face the noise, can't be there for anyone else." He looked apologetic. "Need to make some changes."

"I'll be okay," she lied. "Take as long as you need."

* * *

A/N: DON'T PANIC. This isn't really a cliff-hanger, just an interesting split in an overlong chapter. Will post after I drop off a disgusting little sample at the veterinarian. Thanks for your faith in me.

:-)


	55. Chapter 55

**I should have updated this a bit sooner but my new kitten has taken to sleeping on my desk, and he has THREE TIMES deleted edits on fanfiction dot net with his adorable yiddle paw, taking several hours' worth of work with him. So blame the bad, bad kitty*  
I have this backed up, now :-D**

*by that, I mean me. The bad kitty-mom.

* * *

**TooSoon Chapter 52 - Detour**

Now Rick looked confused. "Wait. What?"

"You said you needed time alone, Castle. I understand." (She didn't really.) "I can meet you back in town. It's no pressure," her shrug was listless, more a reverse shrug, everything shrinking down. "Just, whatever you need. I'll stay in a hotel, maybe go visit my dad."

His face was a study in confusion melting into cold panic. He choked, "You're leaving without me?"

"I understand, you need space..."

"_NO!_" He dropped their bags and she was suddenly enveloped in his arms. "Kate, you absolutely do not understand. I meant I want time alone with _you_."

Mouth opened in a silent O of shocked comprehension, she gaped at him, then grinned wildly, and whispered, "Oh, thank God!" She clamped his bruised face between her palms...

"Ow!"

"Sorry!"

...and pulled him in for a brief, heartfelt smooch, then she hugged him so tightly something cracked. Although he grunted in pain from the morning's fight with Little Patty, he leaned into her anyway, shaking to his core from something beyond either cold or pain.

"Kate," he breathed. He grunted a little, wheezing, "I love you, so much, but … _Uncle_!"

Her heart practically exploded in happiness. She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Jeez, we _really_ need to get some sleep." Somewhere between laughing and crying, she pounded a fist lightly against his chest. "You scared the hell out of me."

He nuzzled her hair. "I'm _so_ sorry. Not so good with the word-things today."

"I understand." (She really did.) "Welcome to my inarticulable world."

"You _are_ my word. Beyond worlds." (See what he did there?)

"Then shut up and kiss me, will you?"

But no. Just then, Tiffany came down the stairs with Shaw and Baldwin. She looked like she'd been crying again. Shaw had brought her a gift from her mom – her little purple stuffed bear from childhood, and she clutched it fiercely under one arm. Baldwin held the lurching cat carrier, with Fabio yowling anxiously inside.

Tiffany looked up at Rick and Kate. She looked small, so young, so vulnerable. Rick gave her his best Dad-smile, his best Dad-voice. No monsters under the bed.

She said, "Well, this is it. Jordan's taking me to the hospital."

"You're gonna be all right," he said.

She nodded, sharing the pretense of believing him. "You too."

Kate said, "We'll be in touch. If you need anything..."

Rick agreed. "_Anything_. Just let us know."

Tiffany's lips pressed together, her brown eyes rimmed with tears. "Thanks," she murmured, "You too." She threw her arms around Rick's waist. He returned her hug, but lightly, letting her go easily when she pulled away, remembering what Beckett had told him about Kayla's panicked reaction to an innocent embrace. Tiffany hugged Kate too, and said, "I owe you both. Big time."

Rick and Kate both blushed, and Shaw said, "Nonsense. Nobody owes anyone anything here. Now let's get you back to your family, okay, Sweetie?"

Shaw and Baldwin helped her into an SUV. Bracketed by a patrol car and a state department vehicle, sirens and lights announced their departure. Kate observed dryly, "They're not messing around."

Rick and Kate got into the last limo. Matt was already splayed out on one seat, fast asleep with his foot up on an armrest. He'd half-lost the sole off one shoe, it was held together with duct tape, and there was dried blood on it.

Castle looked at it in surprise. "When did that happen?"

Kate said, "I think on the railroad tracks. He'd been too busy to realize it, then when he was sewing Betsy up, he noticed his foot hurt. Just a little. Don't you remember? I asked you for ice."

"Ice." Rick shuddered, trying to shake it off. "Right." Had that really happened? He couldn't picture it, the reason for going to the freezer. The thought of himself being unable to picture anything was nearly as scary as what he _was_ able to picture.

Kate said, "Lucky none of us were seriously hurt."

Matt stirred and opened one eye. "You call that luck?" He closed it again, pulled a crumpled brown baseball cap out of his pocket, covered his face, and went back to sleep.

Ryan, Esposito, and Hunt swung by, in back of the stretch limo headed back to Manhattan. Castle and Beckett grinned and waved as Esposito called out, "See ya back on the chain gang!" The limo swung onto the road and away, followed by Mo and Betsy in a nice comfy SUV to themselves – the plan was for their driver to take both of them to get checked out medically, since Betsy's care had not been professional and Mo was still not 100%. Betsy appeared to be feeling much better, and also have won some kind of argument. Her bandaged head hung out the window, ears flapping in the wind, and she barked merrily as the car receded into the distance, a thin stream of drool trailing along its fender, heading for the local emergency veterinary clinic.

Their limo was the last off the tarmac. They took the main road toward the highway, convoying with the others.

Mindful of Matt's slumber, Kate snuggled against Rick's side and said quietly, "Mind if I lean on you a while?"

"Sure, but you have to keep your seat belt on."

"What are you, a cop?" she snickered, but didn't complain.

"Nope. And for the rest of the day, neither are you. We're tourists."

"I like that. Touring farm country in a limo on the fourth of July."

Rick rummaged through the limo's mini fridge. "Ooh, someone thought ahead."

"And that would be, uh... You, right?" said Kate.

"Well, yeah." It was stocked with water, soda, juices, cheese and crackers, grapes, carrot sticks, a few spinach mini-quiches, and an unopened bottle of overpriced French Dijon mustard. Kate and Rick both snickered.

Before the next stoplight, Rick bade the driver pull up close alongside the limo bound for Manhattan. He rolled the window down, and Esposito grinned back as his own window came down too.

Javi said, "Yo. You got any motherfuckin' gray poop on?"

Rick reached across and handed Javi the mustard. "But of course."

Hunt had a window of his own, and that rolled down as well. Rick and Kate could see Ryan smirking behind him in the background. Hunt held out an identical jar of mustard to his son. "Tastes like victory."

Rick accepted the jar, and in his glance, Kate saw the briefest hint of grief. _No victories._

Kate squeezed his arm and called across, "You guys have fun holding down the fort tonight. We're gonna stay the night out here somewhere."

"What, and miss the hail of bullets as drunks fire random shots into the sky?" said Castle.

"That's the fun part!" Ryan said.

Jackson contributed, "I really enjoy picking my way through parade trash and puddles of vomit, myself."

"We're taking the night off. Make do without us," Kate grinned.

"SLACKERS!" hooted Esposito.

"And don't come break our door down while we're sleeping again." Rick joked, because he really did have no filter and sometimes forgot when to zip it.

The light had turned green, and their limo pulled a little ahead. "So long, Suckers!" Kate cried, and rolled the window back up. The response was a flock of three birds being flipped and a round of obscenities and catcalls. Then the other limo peeled off toward the main highway.

"Yeah, you better run," Rick chuckled. "Bunch of 10-year-olds."

"When did they break down the door?" Kate wondered.

Rick's face turned red. "That was, uh, hypothetical."

Matt took his hat off his face and stretched with a moaning yawn and a smack of his lips.

Kate said, "Sorry," and Matt responded with an amiable shrug.

Rick said, "Mornin', Sunshine." He pulled out a bottle of orange juice and handed it to his friend.

"What, no champagne in this car?"

Rick shook his head. "Virgin Mimosa."

"Way to celebrate," Matt said.

Rick replied, "The night is young."

Matt said, "Here's to beer at home in my fridge," and took a swig. "Hey, it's Fourth of July and everything out here's gonna be booked. Have you guys given any thought to where you want to stay tonight, or are you gonna just snuggle in the trunk here?"

"I was thinking maybe you could put us up in the barn," Rick said.

Kate tried to hide a sense of rising alarm. "You mean your storage barn. Right?"

Matt said, "Chloe tells me there's a new litter of kittens up in the hayloft."

"Sounds great," Rick said.

"Or you could sleep in the living room. The dogs love company. And when they fart, the mosquitoes just..." he wiggled his fingers, "magically drop out of the sky."

Rick smiled, thinking of Betsy. "You lie down with dogs, sometimes you get up with squirrels."

"Plus you can share the outhouse with the raccoons," Matt added. "Endless fun..."

Kate pulled out her phone. "I'll start calling around. Maybe there's a last minute cancellation..."

Catching Kate's look of supressed panic, Rick and Matt snickered. Matt said, "_Teasing_. The farm has a guest house. No worries."

Kate looked across at Matt. "It's your first night back. Will Chloe mind?"

Matt smiled. "She's already invited you for dinner. The girls can't wait to see us."

* * *

•

The limo pulled up in front of Matt's farm house. Chloe and their little daughters, Ella (age three, in pink) and Olivia (age 5, in a disheveled Wild Things wolf suit despite the heat) mobbed Matt.

Chloe welcomed them with a wide smile that glowed against her dark skin. She was curvy and strong, nearly as tall as Kate, and the little girls were a perfect blend of their two parents, with sparkling-green eyes, soft mocha skin, and springy reddish-brown curls. Chloe leaned into the limo and said, "I hope you guys are staying for dinner. We're just having burritos, if that's all right on Fourth of July."

Rick was thrilled, "Oh, thank you. We haven't had Mexican food in... wow, only six days?"

"Six days too long," said Matt. "Hey, isn't Mexican the new American?"

Then the dogs (Niblett and Wojo) were allowed to come out from behind the gate, and they mobbed Matt as well. Castle and Beckett waited, as unobtrusively as possible, then Castle tipped the driver with thanks and they got out. The driver pulled their gear out of the trunk and set it on the cement path to the produce stand, which had closed at 4 p.m, selling out down to the last blueberry.

The dogs were so excited to see him that Nibblet fell over, hyperventilating, on the lawn. Castle threw Wojo's ball a few times, Kate rubbed Niblett's tummy, and then Matt swung Olivia up onto his shoulders like a wolf-monkey hybrid, held the giggling Ella upside down by her bitty little ankles, and they all trooped into the blissfully cool, shady house.

Small wondered whether they had any beets. Did you know beets are a wonderful source of biotin, an essential nutrient for fetal development? Kate didn't.

Kate said, "Do you have any beets? I'm sorry, I know they don't really go with Mexican food..."

Chloe chuckled and pulled some baby beets out of the crisper drawer. "When are you due?"

"Ground hog day."

Rick said, "Hey, we could name him Punxatawny Phil."

Chloe gave him a glare. "You'll scar him for life. Is it a him?"

They spoke at the same time. "Who cares?"  
•

After washing his hands for a surprisingly long time, Rick helped Chloe set up a burrito bar with grilled chicken, rice, beans, cheese, lettuce, and homemade guacamole (Matt and Chloe didn't grow avocados of course, but they had a swap deal going on with a grocer in town). While they all talked in the kitchen, Kate and Matt stayed off their feet, but helped the little girls set the well-scrubbed farmhouse table. Chloe prepped some baby beets for Kate and steamed them, then dressed them simply with a little salt, pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil.

Rick, Kate, and Matt were still a bit glassy-eyed after their adventures, and they couldn't answer a lot of questions, so while eating, they were all content to listen to the two little girls chattering about the new kittens living in the barn.

Matt said, "I have a feeling we'll all be sleeping through the fireworks tonight."

"What?" cried Olivia.

"Well, not us," said Chloe. "Our guests are tired, but we can watch the ones at the high school from your bedroom window."

Olivia seemed fine with that. She and her sister dug in to little dishes of raspberry sorbet.

Rick said, "Any chance Kate and I could borrow your truck for the night? I'd like to take her up to the guest house."

"Up?" Kate said. "So it's not one of the outbuildings here?"

Rick said, "No. It's an old inn on a road that was abandoned after a landslide. They built the new throughway on the other side of the mountain, so no need for it anymore. Matt and I used to..."

"Explore it," Matt interrupted. "When we were big, strapping teenagers and had responsibly finished our farm chores and asked permission."

Rick nodded to the little girls. "Your daddy was a very good boy. And he grew up to be a hero. All because he finished his chores and told his mom what time he'd be home."

Ella looked at her dad with wide eyes. "What's a hero?"

"I'm, uh, one of the good guys."

"That's all you need to know," said Kate.

Chloe continued about the guest house. "It was abandoned for a long time, but the foundation was good. The current owner's a friend. He had it restored. Updated it a bit."

"Sounds kind of romantic," Kate said hopefully.

"It's... rustic," said Chloe. "You'll need a flashlight."

Kate thought, _"Great. Spiders." _ She said, "Sounds like my dad's cabin."

Rick said, "I'm sure it's in better shape than the last time I poked around in it."

Matt nodded. "Sure, but you're welcome to stay here."

Chloe pointed to the keys, on a hook by the kitchen door. "You should go have a look. Besides, last thing you need is the pitter patter of these little chickens in the morning."

Ella laughed. "Niblett snores."

* * *

•

With sunset near, after dinner, Rick and Kate grabbed the pickup truck and swung by his storage barn for a few things they might need at the guest house. He said, "Maybe we should grab some sleeping bags to watch the fireworks. And a book or two. Since there's no electricity. "

Inside, Rick went upstairs by the library and leaned against the railing, surveying his empire of memorabilia. He was uncharacteristically quiet.

She was poking around the boxes. She may have taken something out of one of his boxes of pirate stuff and put it in her pocket when he had his back turned. "There's plenty of room. We could just sleep here."

"No," he said. He looked across the room at the deep-freezer where he stored his vast collection of arcane popsicle flavors. "It's a little too... I dunno. Not conducive for sleeping."

Kate ascended the stairs, curled up in the gorgeously-ugly cow chair, and said, "So. We need to talk."

"Yeah," he said. He cleared his throat, and from the set of his shoulders, Kate's heart sank.

"What is it, Castle?" Her voice was low and shaky, even though they were alone.

"I've been thinking."

She refrained from making a snappy quip. "That's usually a good thing, right?"

"I can't do it anymore."

Her face went white. "Do what?"

"I... I won't be able to follow you at the Twelfth anymore."

Breath left her, almost as hard as if she'd been punched. Her hands twisted together, and she stared in alarm. When he turned, their emotions mirrored: anger, fear, regret, sadness, confusion.

She thought _"Oh, God, no."_ But aloud, she rasped, "Why?"

His voice shook, avoiding the question, rambling on the practicalities. "I've already outlined Nikki's last two books. Derek's too. Maybe I'll have Black Pawn hold a contest, see if I can get a ghost writer to handle the details."

Her eyes went wide. "All right. It's not like you haven't done enough research at the precinct." Tears welled up. She couldn't imagine being there without him, not anymore. But that wasn't his problem. "Maybe it's good to take some time off. Get back to normal. But you should leave your options open."

"Kate. You realize this isn't over? There won't be a '_normal_'. We got Tiffany out of Ireland alive, but sooner or later, at least Esposito and I will have to go back. Give Gashkouri some backup, give testimony about what happened. Michael helped kill a _lot_ of people, and there will be wrongful death lawsuits and victim's compensation. There'll be depositions and testimony and appeals, and it's gonna drag on for _years_, both in criminal and civil courts."

"It's something I kind of take for granted as a cop. I know it's a pain. It can be really intimidating."

"In t_wo countries_. At least two, maybe more. But that's not the worst of it." He leveled a pained look at her. "Kate, I'm rich. _We're_ rich, at least for now, and maybe you've just taken that for granted. But once it's established, publicized that 3XK... that Michael was my brother...

"You're not responsible for his actions."

"Not on paper. And the Richard Castle brand has some immunity through the corporation. But listen. It's gonna be guilt by association, by public judgment. I'll definitely lose readers, and I imagine Black Pawn will be within its rights to drop me. I could easily lose every dime I've ever earned, and possibly some of my property as well. I'm so glad you signed that prenup; at least they can't touch your stuff."

"I'm sure the law offers you some protection..."

"What if I don't _want_ to be protected? God, it makes me _sick_ to think how proud I was, when you first arrested me for copycat murders." His eyes started to tear again. "I wrote about murder for _fun_. What the hell was wrong with me?" He was pacing now, his arms waving. "My whole fucking little empire is built on fantasies of wrongful death. Master of the Macabre, anyone?"

Kate's face was calm. If she was worried at all about going broke, it didn't show. "Castle. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Tell that to everyone who..." he shook his head, his voice trailing off. "I should never have become a writer."

"Really? Could you be wallowing any deeper?"

He bristled. "I don't know. You got any mud you can sling my way? You usually have plenty to spare."

She stopped, holding up her palms to him, somewhere between apology and deflecting a blow. "I'm sorry. I'm a highly skilled wallower, so I know it when I see it. It's just not like _you_."

He sighed, pressing fingers to the bridge of his nose, and realized most of him was aching in one way or another. He said, "It's okay. I'll be fine."

"_Fine_? Like _my_ kind of fine?" She rolled her eyes, in a peculiar imitation of herself. _"Fuck off, I"m Kate Beckett, and I'm fuckin' fine!"_ She tossed her hair, rolled her shoulders. To top it off, she crossed both her arms and her legs, huffed, and gave him the Withering Glare. "Now, you wanna see my Richard Castle imitation?"

He was tempted to say "You look like the world's sexiest pretzel", but that seemed a bit off-topic. He smiled a tiny bit, despite himself. "No. There's your Oscar, right there."

She unwound herself and took a deep breath, thinking, _"Okay. Back on track." _

"Remember_, _once I asked you why you started writing thrillers in the first place. And remember your bullshit answer? The maid's little boy? The body on the beach? And then you _smirked_ at me when I fell for it."

"Last thing I needed was to bring my baggage into the Twelfth Precinct."

"Rick, you brought an entire baggage carousel!"

He snickered, but he folded his arms defensively, knowing she was gonna move in for the kill.

She continued. "But what does Richard Castle, Citizen Consultant, tell me? Oh, yeah. _'__There's __always a story.' _So_, _Let me guess: This is a story about a prepubescent boy, and a body. How old were you?"

His eyes shifted away from her. "How do you know that?"

"Because whenever you want to hide something, you bullshit me. Also I'm a detective, and you look a little relieved."

"And you look a little smug, Detective."

"Nobody's perfect." She backed off the interrogation, gentling her tone. He couldn't help but admire her technique. At the same time, he wanted to melt into the floor.

"Burke once told me that arrested development can occur when a person experiences a serious trauma, whether physical or emotional. I'm the first to admit that I was a messed-up, damaged 19-year-old for a long, long time..."

"No, Kate..."

"Shush. And I know I've called you a nine-year-old on a sugar rush. Now, God knows you're more of an adult than I ever would have thought possible... but you have unfinished business. An unfinished story. And I don't think you'll be writing it for _fun_. You'll be writing it as a service."

His lips pressed together, his face starting to crumple. She stopped, pressed her forehead against his, and crossed her lower arms across the back of his neck. "Now, come with me. You've earned a little reward."

* * *

•

She went back down the stairs and started for the freezer. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing, and he was pulverized with a wave of panic. He blinked, and waiting there right behind his closed eyelids, he saw the _faces_, the cut, stolen, frost-burned faces with drooping, stretched, empty sockets, looking back at him from the freezer in Murphy's basement. Tongues, feet, hands, things that looked like sausages or gutted fish, but weren't. He heard Mephistopheles' cold chuckle in his head, an icy tongue licking down his spine.

It was utterly irrational, but Rick was transfixed with the vision that if Kate opened that door, body parts would come tumbling out in a shower of frost, sliding in their sealed plastic packets, shedding ice like demonic hockey pucks. Meph's voice etched a rime of frost inside Rick's skull. _"She'll see them. She'll know everything. You'll never be the same, she'll never be the same, she won't even be able to eat ice cream by the time I'm finished with her."_

Compelled by his waking nightmare, Rick rushed after Kate and grabbed her shoulder. "STOP. Kate, stop."

She stared at him, amused. "What is it? Only the boys get popsicles?"

"No, no, no, please, don't open it. _Please_."

Now her eyes bored into him. "Castle, what's in the freezer?"

Mephistopheles whispered, _"You saw it all, and she's just gonna let that memory out, let it tumble all over the floor... the hands, the feet, the..."_

"Nothing, I, I dunno, just, can you leave it?" He was shaking, and she wondered whether he was going to be sick. "Come on. Let's go."

"What do you think is in there?" she whispered.

"Nothing. I just don't want to hear it open." His eyes darted to the heavy, industrial door.

She looked over at it, and said, "You went to get ice for..."

He nodded silently, swallowing.

"This didn't happen with the limo fridge or in Chloe's kitchen. What is it... Oh, Rick." Her hand stroked slowly up and down his arms, shoulder to elbow, warm and reassuring. She saw him in her mind's eye, slamming Murphy's industrial freezer door shut, hard. His face a white mask, turning to her. _"No ice in there," _he'd said.

"What was Murphy storing in his basement?"

"Pieces," he choked, afraid to close his eyes again, staring at her shoes, the grass-stained canvas sneakers she'd worn off the plane. "Identifying pieces. Faces, hands, feet. Gender."

"God," she huffed. "Those assholes."

He actually whimpered then, in such anguish that she dropped the interrogation, stepped into him, and wrapped her arms around his ribs. He stared warily over her shoulder at the stainless-steel popsicle freezer. It seemed to loom over them, reflecting ripples of red and blue and amber light from the jukebox, and their own elongated, distorted reflections, like monstrous sideshow creatures.

She lightened her grip, and he felt her ribcage expand as it filled with air. "You feel me breathing," she said into his shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Follow me." She took another deep breath. "Down to the belly, like in yoga class."

"I hate yoga."

"Doesn't matter, Castle," she said sharply. "Breathe slowly."

"It won't go in." He felt dizzy.

She tilted her head up and breathed again, then sealed her lips gently against his. He felt her breathe into his mouth, warm and slow and steady, as they sometimes did in lovemaking, but it couldn't penetrate his lungs. His heart felt like it was going to jackhammer out of his chest, and he was sweating, but so cold.

Kate's hands went up to his temples, her warm, sure green eyes holding his gaze. "This isn't you, Castle. There's a name for it, and it's not you."

His breath was coming in short, tight gasps. "I think I'm having a heart attack. What..."

"You might be having a panic attack. It's PTSD, maybe."

"No, I'm, jeezus, Kate, this, this..."

"You feel bad now, but I'll stay with you. I've been there, alone in my Dad's cabin. You remember that time I froze up when that car backfired? I just got overloaded. You're overloaded, and it's okay. You're not alone."

"I should be. You should leave me, you don't deserve this. I'm... It's my fault, Kate! I should have figured it out! I should have caught them, stopped them, it's my fault."

"Not your fault. No, no," she was almost crooning as she stroked his hair. "You've done so much. Gone above and beyond. Nobody could have done better."

_"I_ could!" he spat, and pushed her away, pacing, and the look on his face scared her for the second time that day, only this time she was scared for him. "I was fucking blind."

"Not even you can see everything, Rick. But you can see the truth." She strode to the freezer before he could stop her, and tugged it open. A white cloud of condensation swarmed her silhouette, threatening to pull her in. Rick cried out, flew to her. She reached into the freezer, snatched the nearest RazzyPop she could find, and held it up to him as if she were presenting him with a bunch of roses.

"They're popsicles." She spoke calmly, stating a fact, without judgment, not a smirk or a quirk or a shred of pity. He quailed back and looked past her into the freezer. All he could see was a wall of white fog, with faint shadows, little boxes, the dim outline of shelves. She casually closed the door, and the wheezing click of the gasket made him shudder. She said, "Does this form a vacuum?"

He nodded faintly, practicality overriding emotion. He was oddly reminded of the time their car got pushed into the Hudson River. He'd felt so calm, pushing back panic and thinking only of the methods of survival. "It's tough to open for a minute or so."

He felt relieved. She tore at the RazzyPop's clear plastic packet, and looked at it dubiously. It was about 6" long, pinkish-peach, and cylindrical. Decidedly phallic. At any other previous moment in his adult life, he would have entreated her just to let him see her take one lick. He shut his eyes. "Don't."

She looked at him quizzically. "I take it now is not a good time."

He shook his head, she shrugged and tossed it into the utility sink, running warm water over it. They watched it melt away, leaving nothing but the stick.

He told himself silently, _"No bones. No meat, no blood, no skin, no hair. A wooden stick."_

"See? There it goes."

His face was red with shame, but at least he could breathe. "Jeez. I'm afraid of popsicles."

There was no amusement in her face, no condescension. Only compassion in her voice. "You're afraid of memories. You're afraid of judgment. That's the kind of fear that can keep you out of trouble, or it can paralyze you."

She took his hand and they walked to the freezer. "Open it?"

"Can't."

She opened it, held the door open a little longer, chose an Orange CremAPop. "Close it."

"Can't." He couldn't bring himself to touch it.

"Okay," she said evenly. "Maybe next time."

It took her three more tries, each popsicle unwrapped and melted down the drain.

The last time, he reached in, blindly grabbed a Mango Chili Rocket, and slammed the door in a panic.

"GOOD!" Kate beamed. "Now, can we get out of here?"

Rick nodded. "Yeah, I've got the rest of my life for therapy." They embraced a few more moments. He threw the popsicle remnants away.

She said, "Are you sure you don't want to go home? Or sleep in the living room with Niblett's butt in your face?"

"Let's see if we can catch the fireworks."

She chuckled. "Really? You're dead on your feet!"

"Humor me? Remember, I'm a nine-year-old. In need of distraction."

It was hardly even an eyeroll, more like a lid-shrug. "Sure." 

* * *

•

They grabbed a couple of folding lounge chairs, sleeping bags, cushions and pillows, and a plastic box marked "_Misc Camping Stuff_", just in case. They brought them out to Matt's old Chevy truck, and tossed them into the bed.

He reached across the bench seat to unlock her door, and she stopped and stared at him a moment, in his faded grey T-shirt and jeans, his nose busted up, with a roguish smile in his eyes.

He said, "What."

"I never would have thought to see you behind the wheel of an old pickup," she confessed. "It's unexpectedly hot."

She climbed in and he stole a quick kiss before she could buckle her seat belt. He chuckled. "Matt taught me to drive up here. I took part of a fence out and almost flipped it in an irrigation ditch."

To Kate's surprise, Rick didn't drive back out to the main road; rather he guided the truck up a dirt lane around the back of the barn, between bright green rows of grapevines.

"Are these for wine?"

Rick shook his head. "They're Concord; won't be ripe till August." He drove slowly on the gravel, the sun low in his eyes, and they were both startled as a couple of deer bounded right in front of the truck, then dashed away downhill. Rick smiled grimly. "Well, I'm awake now." The lane went through an orchard of mixed fruit trees. He said, "The ones with the curved leaves are peaches. They're incredible when they're still warm from the sun, but they won't be ripe for a week or two."

She said, "Any apples?"

He nodded. "Further up the slope. They aren't as fussy about temperature." They passed some old, gnarled trees, their branches propped against the weight of still-green fruit.

"Are they Granny Smith or something?"

"Nope. Northern Spy. Heirlooms."

She laughed. "Northern Spy?"

He grinned. "Sometimes I feel them watching me."

At the western edge of the orchard, there was a hedgerow, with a locked iron gate, its posts simple and made of mortared stone, but covered with a century's worth of moss and lichen.

Kate said, "Oh, I remember this. The tractor brought a load of people uphill to the Christmas trees."

Rick nodded, pointing to a fork in the lane heading downhill. "The tree farm is around the flank of the hill at about this elevation; but we're going further up."

He gave Kate the key, and she opened the sturdy, modern padlock; he drove through and she locked it behind the truck, climbing back in. The truck proceeded slowly as the bumpy, partly-paved lane curved gently down into a hollow in the shadow of tall trees: oak, beech, maple, birch, hemlock, hickory, black walnut, a few wild plum trees and volunteer berry bushes, with a stony brook winding through amongst clumps of fern, columbine, foxgloves, and grass. It was prematurely twilight here, and the magical flash of tiny fireflies had already begun.

"I love fireflies," Kate breathed.

Rick nodded. "Anyone who doesn't has to be missing a chunk of their soul."

They'd had this discussion before, and it was pleasant to share their routine. "If only there were a cure," she smirked.

"More fireflies." They crossed a brand-new wooden bridge, then the road continued to wind higher up the hill, where a few pines were interspersed with the hardwoods. Amber shafts of sunlight sliced through the shadows. A few birds were still singing, a squirrel scolded, and the occasional crow cawed.

Kate inhaled deeply, smelling fresh damp earth and wildflowers. "Wow."

They crossed a little bridge as the sun disappeared behind the slump of the mountain, and Rick pulled off a wide spot in the road, backing the truck out of the tree-shadow in a semicircular arc until they could see open sky. They passed through another gateway onto a fairly level, curved gravel drive receding amongst tall trees and a hedge of snowball bushes in flower. Kate was captivated by a sweeping view to the southeast of the Hudson River Valley at dusk.

"I feel like an idiot for saying this again, Castle, but... wow."

His voice overlapped with hers. "Wow! Right? I know!" Looking genuinely delighted, he put his keys in his pocket and got out of the truck.

Kate was entranced by the view.

He said, "It's almost nine. Fireworks in another half-hour or so." He opened the truck's tailgate and sat on it, pulling her in, and she settled her hips in between his legs, with his hands crossed against her chest. "Look, there's the evening star. Make a wish!"

She took his hand, and kissed his fight-scraped knuckles. "I don't need to. I have everything I want, right here."

"Don't be so sure."

"Okay, then. I have a wish. I wish you'd tell me everything. From the beginning."

"Well, when a man and a woman love each other very much..."

"Castle."

"Can't we just pretend we aren't gonna talk about it until we absolutely have to?"

"You know I'm right. You were a kid. Something happened. What?"

He was silent a long moment, and she was afraid he was going to try skimming away over the surface of a joke. But then he said, "I'm not even sure that I didn't imagine it. I was staying with friends in New Hampshire over President's Day weekend. I got lost walking in Hollander's Woods. I found a body."

She spun gently, watched his face carefully, and thought, _"You look so lost now, my love."_ But she just squeezed his hand, then hopped up to sit next to him, her legs swinging off the tailgate. He continued, his voice dark and thoughtful.

"She was a young woman. But I didn't see her at first." He closed his eyes, watching the memory unfold. "There was a man crouching by a log, wearing a black, hooded coat." He grimaced, embarrassed at his own naivete. "I was this huge Star Wars fan. I thought for a second it was someone doing cosplay... I'd read so much and it was so out of context."

"So, not a hoodie."

"No. A long coat, past his knees, with a hood. Like a monk or a Jedi. I must have made a sound because he turned and ran away... I walked up to her and her face..." he winced, and touched his own in a gesture that mimicked a Catholic making the sign of the cross. "He had cut cross marks in her forehead, and her cheeks. He had slit her throat.

"Her eyes?"

"Her eyes were still open. Not glazed yet."

"What color were they?"

"Brown. She had black hair, olive skin; she was dressed in a button-down shirt and jeans, nothing I'd associate with a ritual of any kind, just an ordinary person. She was... she would have been pretty."

"How old?"

"Somewhere between 18 and 25. I reached out to touch her, I thought... I don't know what I thought. Maybe like the Prince in Snow White, maybe I could bring her back. She was so cold."

Kate's warm hands closed over his. "This is the first time I've ever felt you feeling colder than me. I wonder if you're in some kind of shock." All of it an echo of whatever he had seen, just that morning. And perhaps it evoked whatever had started him down the road of _'Murder, Mayhem, and the Macabre'._ Such helplessness.

"What was the weather like?"

He looked surprised at the question. "It was an early spring. Unusually early. Thawed, but still chilly. Lots of greenery, lots of mud."

"Was she muddy?"

"Not really, no..."

"And was there blood on his hands?"

"No." His eyes went wide. "She was killed somewhere else."

Kate nodded.

Rick took in a stuttering breath, gaining momentum. "The man... the man in the hood, he sneaked up and grabbed me from behind. Lifted me by the shoulders and pinned me back against a tree trunk. Put a knife to my throat. I couldn't even touch the ground, couldn't fight him... he was wearing a mask."

"A mask? Tell me about it."

"It was white, maybe porcelain, with... with a cross shape on it: black line from top to bottom, another black line over the eyes, but dripping, like he wept oil..."

"Could you see the color of his eyes?"

"His face was shaded, the sun behind him. I could barely focus on him. I was so scared..."

Castle's voice went up in pitch at the end there, almost a squeak, a question. She usually found it funny, but it was nothing near funny now.

"He told me not to tell anyone. That he'd hunt me down and kill me, kill everyone I knew..."

"Oh, Babe." She slipped her right arm behind his waist, and took his left hand with hers. "That's horrible."

He nodded. "I found my way back to my friend's house. I waited, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. About _her_. Later I called in an anonymous tip. The police went to the woods with cadaver dogs. They found nothing. I thought maybe I'd imagined it, maybe fallen asleep in the woods and dreamed it."

"Not a trace of the body?"

"No. I've revisited the case over and over through the years. They brought dogs in, but they found no trace of human blood. There was no body, nobody missing, no local cult activity, no similar murders. Nothing in the FBI database. Nothing."

Kate tilted her head. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I didn't want to believe it myself."

Her mouth pursed in skepticism. "And you thought I wouldn't believe you."

"A young, over-imaginative boy who spent too much time alone? A perp in a robe and a mask? I know how much you love my wild theories, Beckett."

"Rick. Your wild theories just saved three young women. Your wild theories have helped solve a couple hundred murders and brought justice and answers to families. Your wild theories brought us together, and the one thing they will never do is take us apart."

He looked a little surprised. "So you really do believe me?"

She said, "I do. Maybe not word-for-word..." she held up a staying finger. "A lot of time has passed. But clearly whatever happened? It cut you to the bone."

He was silent, tears starting up in his eyes. He blinked them back.

She said, "This is the story you need to write. All the way to the end. You're never gonna really find peace until you find out what really happened. And we have resources now that you didn't have when you were eleven."

"Such as?"

"Ryan. Esposito. Me. Lanie. Maybe we could bring Betsy out there and see if she notices anything interesting."

"Maybe," he said. "But I don't – it's the last thing I want to pursue right now."

"We can all use a break," she conceded, stroking his cheek, careful not to touch the bruise on his left jaw. "When you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready? Will you think less of me if I leave one murder unsolved?"

She couldn't help hesitating. She might, just a little, and they both knew it. Saving her energy, she lied for now, and he forgave her. "No. But will you?"

"I feel like I'm losing myself. This morning I could see it in your face. I scared you."

She nodded. "And it was necessary."

"No. You should _not_ have been there."

"Neither should you, Castle. It's just the way things worked out. And you put together an amazing team."

He slid down off the tailgate and paced a little. "I know I said I'd have your back no matter what. I meant it. I still mean it but, please, Kate!" His voice was choked, the words fighting through his tight jaw. "I'm done watching you risk yourself over and over again, and I'm done writing about murder just to entertain people. I never want to see another body. I'm sick of death. I never even want to eat another cheeseburger."

Her mouth quirked in a sad little smile. "I wondered why you took a pass on the chicken at dinner."

He nodded. "It's all just been a bit too brutal for my taste." He put a hand over his eyes a moment, then snapped his attention back on her. "I'm gonna need a lot of help with this."

"Always," she said. "Even if I can't be your muse, I can still be your wife. Right?"

"Who says you can't be my muse?"

"Well, no murders. No Twelfth Precinct. No Nikki. No Jameson either, I presume."

"There's so much more to you than any of that." He stepped up to her, and now it was her turn to wrap her legs around his hips. "More to us."

"Really?" This kind of compliment always surprised her a little.

His forehead pressed against hers, then his chest, then belly, then hips rippled in close, aligned with her. "Mmm. You inspire me in so. Many. Ways."

"Good," she said. "Because you're stuck with me. So maybe we can focus on life. Give death a little break."

At that moment, Kate definitely felt a very tiny, localized nudge on her bladder, as if Small had just stomped on it for emphasis: _"Damn right about tha__t__." _But that was impossible. Small was about the size of a large blueberry. Blueberries don't nudge.

Kate sat up straight with a quizzical look on her face. "What the..."

Assuming she was looking behind him at the sky, Rick spun to look over the valley. "UFO?"

Kate laughed. Then low in the twilit sky, some fireworks went off, set by amateurs on the railroad tracks down by the local high school less than a mile away. First bottle rockets, then fountains, then Roman candles. "Snap, crackle, pop," she murmured as the tiny explosions echoed up faintly from the distance.

"Damn rebel teenagers," Castle groused in his best angry-old-man voice. He shook a fist at the valley below. "Get off my lawn!"

"I can imagine _you_ as a rebel teenager now, Castle. Setting off fireworks at Lafferty's farm, pretending to be a rock star when you got caught."

"Somewhat harder to imagine you as an angry old lady with a lawn." He picked her up, the two of them giggling, and then he just carried her, light as a feather, up the gravel drive, shadowed by trees.

"Where are we going?"

"Guest house."

She looked around, but didn't see any lights or structure, just trees and rapidly darkening sky. "What about the fireworks?" (Not that she actually cared, but he'd seemed so excited about it.)

"You've seen one sparkly, earth shattering explosion, you've seen them all."

"That's not what she said," Kate quipped.

"No peeking."

"At what?"

"Sh. I'm echolocating." Rick's steps quieted as he moved carefully in the dark, from gravel to slate pavers, and then to Kate's surprise, in only a few steps they were shadowed by some kind of overhanging structure.

"What's this?"

"Porch," he huffed a little, but was barely out of breath. She suddenly realized he'd spent a lot of time running after a bloodhound over the last few days in Ireland. "Gonna just grab the key. Don't you go anywhere, Mrs. Beckett-Castle-Beckett."

"But I wanna see!"

She sounded so much like a ten-year-old that he laughed. "You will. Patience." He set her down, and fished in his pocket, using his teeny little LED flashlight to find the lock. The door was polished wood, heavy, and rather old-fashioned, but the key was modern.

She had tried to step back and look up at the exterior, but he grabbed her, swept her back up, and kissed her soundly. "Threshold."

"Ohhhh," she said. Tears started up in her eyes. She pushed them down. "But, Castle, you know this is a holdover from the olden days of men stealing brides away from their...

"Well, you can pick me up and carry me out tomorrow, because I don't plan on being able to walk."

"Fair deal," she said. "Now can we go inside?"

He shoved the door open with his shoulder and carried her through, then set her down, and they hugged wordlessly a moment, adjusting their eyes to the deeper darkness. Kate murmured, "Castle, I just realized something."

"What?"

"We forgot to get married. I mean, in the eyes of the law."

"I thought we... Didn't we get married when I... well, we exchanged rings, right?"

"Well, yeah, but you weren't exactly a consenting adult at the time, you were high as a kite."

"Oh, no I wasn't."

"Nieman gave you a speedball. Martha told the hospital I was your wife so I could be in the room with you."

"Oh. Well then. Katherine Houghton Beckett, will you still marry me?"

"Yes."

"Even with the psychopaths and me being afraid of popsicles?"

"Double yes. Now, where's the light switch?"

"Power's out."

"What kind of guest house is this?"

He felt about on a waist-high table by the front door, finding a stick lighter, and used it to spark a safety lantern. "You know. Rustic."

She looked around and gasped. "Oh, my God."

"Let's hope you say that more than once tonight."

* * *

We all know "inarticulable" isn't a word, right? And so does Kate. Just yanking chains. ;-)


	56. Chapter 56

**Too Soon Chapter 53 – In The Dark**

"This is gorgeous," Kate breathed.

Castle lit a second lantern and handed it to her. Its warm, flickering light illuminated a reclaimed hardwood floor polished to a soft caramel brown, inlaid near the edges with a darker geometric pattern of boards.

Kate said, "Let's take our shoes off. I don't want to mess up the floor. It's amazing." There was a little shelf, right by the door, for that purpose, and a handmade ceramic bowl where Rick left his keys.

He smiled at that. "Nice touch."

They were in a small foyer for a large living/ dining area. The ceiling was high, with exposed beams, and there was clearly wiring for lights above, but there were no fixtures anywhere. The living room had a huge, native stone fireplace with a massive wooden mantel. There were doors on either side, maybe to extra rooms or closets. The craftsmanship was decidedly old-world, with exposed dovetailed beams and inset cabinetry and bookcases. There were only two leather wing chairs and a coffee table in the living room. The house had big windows open to every direction, all of them hung with the same simple linen cafe' curtains.

They moved through the great room slowly, admiring the little details. She seemed puzzled, her brow wrinkled in an adorable frown.

He was concerned. "Are you sure you like it?"

"I hope you didn't pay a lot to rent this, it seems so... incomplete."

"It was a bargain, and the owner did apologize that it's not quite finished. But in general, I like it. It has nice..." he trailed off. She knew what he'd started to say. _"Nice bones." _He cleared his throat.

She said, "Nice lines."_  
_

The doors were all recycled, with the frames built around their idiosyncratic sizes, but the hardware was new and everything swung and closed easily, soundlessly. The house's feel was somewhere between 1850s farmhouse and 1910's Craftsman movement: sturdy, simply, functional, handmade and homey. But the windows were double-paned and well-screened. Rick tried one, unlocking it, and it slid up easily, letting in a fresh cross-draft.

The dining area had a large table much like the one at Matt and Chloe's house. Big enough to seat ten, it was handmade and of simple design, had been beaten up and ringed over endless years of use, was now clean, sanded down and sealed, showing only the hints of its heritage. There were four mismatched dining chairs. Kate guessed they were anywhere from 50 to 150 years old, all sturdy, comfy, and carefully restored, each with a hand-quilted seat pad tied on.

The kitchen was the size of Kate's entire kitchen-plus-living-dining-room in her old apartment and flowed straight into the dining area, so there was no need for two tables. There were only the bare minimum of dishes, utensils, pots and pans and linens, but it had lots of cabinetry. There were two sinks, one of them huge, with a pivoting spigot so that one could fill large pots to boil on the nearby stove. Kate said, "Wow, that's just like the stove I posted on my HotGlue House &amp; Home wish list." The stove was not an antique, but it was a highly-rated six-burner with two ovens and a surface griddle for pancakes. It had been impeccably refurbished.

"You have a HotGlue for house stuff?" Castle sounded surprised.

Kate huffed. "I think any human being with internet access and ovaries has a 'house and garden' HotGlue."

"Well, I have one too."

"Good!" Kate said. "We should compare notes. This place is like house porn come to life."

"My last interior decorator laughed at my taste."

"Well, there is the whole Boba Fett issue."

"I think he'd look great in the mud room."

"I'm sure he'd scare womp rats away."

Although there was room for a refrigerator, nothing had yet been installed.

Kate said wryly, "We're safe here for the night. No freezer."

Castle gave her a grouchy dig in the ribs. "This, I did _not_ plan ahead."

She gave him a steady look. "You can handle it."

He checked with himself. "Yeah. I guess I can."

There was an insulated cooler on the counter, though, and Castle let her check it for body parts. But it only contained makings for breakfast and snacks.

Were there crackers? No, but...

"Ooh! Homemade ginger cookies!" They each nibbled on a soft, chewy cookie as they continued their tour.

Off the kitchen, there was a laundry room (with no washer or dryer) and a mud room (with, as yet, no mud). There was a large side room. Kate said, "I wonder what this... I guess it could be a guest room, or an office, or a play room, I dunno, maybe a craft room or studio... exercise room? Castle, this would be a great place for a yoga retreat."

"How about a game room? Pool table."

He got the Disapproving Bunny Nose for that, but he said, "I can think of a way to change your mind," in such a sultry growl that she was inclined to agree.

This downstairs room also had its own bathroom, again very simply decorated with the shower separate from the toilet and sink. It was all brand-new and scrupulously clean. Kate smelled the cake of handmade soap. "Lemon verbena."

"Not just lemon?" Castle grinned. He took a whiff. "That's nice. Smells like that Frooty-Oaty Bar cereal."

The back door from the kitchen led out to a tiny slate patio with a couple of Adirondack chairs and some kind of fountain looming in the distance, but they decided not to go outdoors, or down into the dark basement. That would be better done in daylight.

Instead, they went upstairs. The upright posts at the foot of the stairs were mahogany. They were mis-matched. The one on the right had a panel with a bas-relief of a pineapple carved into it. Kate caressed its crown with her finger. "Pineapples used to be a symbol of welcome," she smiled. The left panel had a blank rectangle, as if waiting for another carving to be installed. The stairs had somewhat low risers, and they were deep, which made them very easy to ascend, but required a landing to get to the second floor. The landing had a deep window-seat looking out on the valley. It was padded with a green plaid cushion, and there were shelves underneath, but so far, no books. Although it was long enough for Rick to stretch out – nearly seven feet- it wasn't quite as wide as a twin bed. Kate practically squealed.

"Oh, I love window seats!" She opened the curtain, and they could see the Hudson valley below, a mix of countryside nearby growing steadily more urban and brightly-lit toward the riverbanks fifty miles away. The night sky was now black and littered with twinkling stars, in some places with heavy storm clouds up-lit by distant city lights. But a few fireworks shows were visible – one up somewhere near West Point, one further down the river, and 70 miles away, the lowering clouds reflected blue, red, yellow, green, and white as Manhattan's shows lit up the sky. They could feel, rather than hear, the boom of fireworks ringing through the night. Somewhere, dogs barked.

She curled up on one end of the seat, and he sat across, knees up, looking at her, not caring much about the view out the window. She said, "Can you imagine napping here on a sunny afternoon, looking out over the valley?"

Rick looked across at her. "I can. I can imagine watching fireworks, right from here, with an excited toddler spilling chocolate milk all over my lap." He tucked his big, warm feet over her smaller, colder ones, and she was mindful not to wiggle her toes and tickle him.

"Ooh, look. Smiley-face fireworks!"

Rick grinned, then his face went a little sad. "Alexis loves those."

"You feel ready to see her yet?"

He shook his head. "We've been apart longer than this. I've missed her, of course. Mother too, but I'm feeling a bit... tapped out."

"A bit?" She nodded and scooted her feet to top his. "You don't have to take care of anyone but yourself right now, okay?"

He looked at her uncertainly, but didn't answer. She decided to give him something to look forward to. Clearly he liked this place as much as she did, even though it looked so unlived-in.

She said, "Let's come back next year. Maybe by then they'll figure out how to install light fixtures." She snickered. "Why would someone leave that out?"

Rick said, "Maybe the owners have eclectic tastes. Maybe they're busy."

"If this were my place, I would jump on it."

"If I were your husband, would you jump on me?"

It was more a reflex than flirtation. His heart wasn't really in it.

"Like a bunny." She held out her hand. "Come on, let's see the rest of it."

There was an upstairs bathroom near the landing, a smallish bedroom, then ignoring a few doors, they went for the wide, open master suite door at the end of the hall. The master bedroom took up about a third of the house, with windows on three sides. It had its own pellet-burning stove and ensuite bathroom.

Again, the furnishings were sparse but of high quality – an immense four-poster bed with snow-white linens and a hand-pieced quilted duvet cover, a braided rug, a William Morris style rocker, a dresser, and a huge, antique mirror on the wall across from the bed. She charged into the bathroom, the light from her lantern dancing. "Okay. Double step-down tub with Jacuzzi..."

He smirked at it. "I think the owner was going for 'indoor pond'..."

"Double jets on the shower... She walked in and stopped. "Castle, the floor is _warm_."

He sat in the rocker and leaned his head back. "So?"

"THE FLOOR. IS. HEATED."

"Well, isn't that nice? If your toes get cold in the night..." His voice was drifting, sleepy. His eyes closed a moment then he sat upright with a gasp. "Did I fall asleep?"

"No." She looked at him in concern. "Maybe for a second or two. Bad dream?"

Trying to shake an incipient nightmare off, he stood up and went to the window. "I don't hear any more fireworks. Must be 9:45 by now."

She ducked her head a little. Bit her lip. "Feels like bedtime."

"I'll go grab our bags from the truck."

"Should I run a bath? Or shall we shower?"

Rick looked in longing at the huge tub and imitated a newscaster. _"__Couple drowns in sleep. News at eleven."_

"Shower it is," she grinned.

He said, "We should make it quick – storm's coming in." Everyone knows not to use plumbing during a thunderstorm, right? Or a phone, or stand on concrete? Just so we're all on the same page, here, safety-wise.

She went into the bathroom, and the moment she closed the door, his smile disappeared. He checked the closet (empty) and under the bed (no monsters).

He walked out with one of the lanterns, checking each empty room and closet swiftly as he hurried down the dark hallway. The house, so beautiful and warm whenever Kate was in a room, had grown cold, sad, and forbidding. He wondered about all the recycled and salvaged materials the architect had selected, the floors, the doors, the joists. Sure, they were economical and environmentally-friendly, but they suddenly seemed full of ghosts. What had they seen? What would they see in the future? He felt stupid. Why had he gone with a place so far from everyone they knew and loved? Why had he ever thought this was a good idea?

Downstairs, he slipped his shoes on and hurried out to the truck, found the flashlight in the glove compartment and threw the sleeping bags – which they wouldn't need – into the cab just as the sky opened up. He grabbed their bags and hurried back toward the house. There was a brief flash, and thunder rumbled when he reached the front door.

•

The bathroom was well-stocked with expensive toiletries, even toothbrushes, and a shampoo she hadn't used since childhood: Herbal Spring. Kate started up the shower and got it adjusted, not too hot or too cold, managing to wash and shave everything pertinent before he could join her. She washed her hair, worked in conditioner, washed her face, and he still hadn't returned.

She wrapped her body in an immense, white, fluffy bath sheet and twisted her hair into a smaller towel. Grabbing the lantern, she called out, "I had to finish all by myself!" He wasn't there. Something felt wrong, and she hurried downstairs. Wind was blowing in from the back kitchen door and out the front, and their bags were at the base of the stairs alongside a large flashlight. He hadn't taken off his shoes, and his wet shoe prints showed her where he'd gone. "Rick?"

She followed them and found all his clothes and shoes piled on the slate floor of the mud room. The safety lantern in her hand wasn't bright enough to illuminate much in the back yard; she got an impression of the slate patio, the chairs and fountain-thing, some overhanging trees, and overall the great swirling gray-and-black onslaught of the rain. It wasn't that cold... but it was coming down in buckets.

She had to raise her voice to be heard over the wind. "Castle?" She was about to go back in for the flashlight when she heard his voice, oddly muffled and surprisingly close.

"Here."

Lightning flashed then. Amazing how much detail you can take in. He was standing nude in the grass, mostly in shadow with a sharp blue-white outline. A few feet beyond him, the fountain turned out to be a nude kneeling Atlas birdbath, straining under the weight of his shallow bowl, which was overflowing.

"Rick, what is it?"

He gestured helplessly, "Lemon verbena." He looked at his empty hands.

Kate took a moment to grasp his meaning, then nodded. "I'll be right back." She ran into the house, grabbed the soap from the downstairs bathroom, and returned outside, discarding her lantern and cumbersome towels on the rubber mat in the doorway. Although nude, she still felt warm - she usually did now that she was pregnant.

He hadn't moved much, just stood there in the rain, waiting for her. She couldn't see his expression, but his whole body looked tense, and somehow defeated.

"Here." She held the soap out in her two hands, then up to the rain to moisten it. Silhouetted against the dim light of the lantern behind her, she looked as if she was asking the sky for a blessing.

She tilted her mouth up to kiss his drooping forehead, and began soaping him down, working quickly, starting with the top of his head. While she washed him, they talked, so close now that they didn't have to yell above the wind.

She said, "You're gonna get struck by lightning."

"At least it's a reasonable thing to be scared of."

Trying to make light of whatever the hell was going on, she said, "Didn't you take a shower on the plane?"

"I couldn't get clean. Remember when you killed Dick Coonan?"

"You helped me wash my hands." She reached up to caress his cheek. "I still didn't feel clean for days."

A bit of soap stung his eyes and he tilted his face up to the sky, and tears streamed down to his shoulders, indistinguishable from rain. She washed all the sore spots, the old stitch-marks and new unstitched cuts, his bruised belly and tender ribs. She washed his strong, sore back. Then she knelt in a cold puddle in the wet summer grass and washed his ass. She bade him turn, and washed the balls and cock that had given her so much pleasure and the tiny life within her, and she didn't judge that they were cold and limp under her ministrations, because sex was not what either of them needed just then. She washed the legs that had carried too much, the crest of his hip that had been smashed by a shard of flying cement back in the tunnel, the knee that had been destroyed and rebuilt, washed his stiff ankles, and though she was working in wet grass, she let him lean a hand on her strong shoulder and raise his feet to be washed, one at a time, only to go back into the mud, and that was all right. It was fine, it was good, it was better than good. Clean dirt.

She stood then, and lightning strobed again, a little closer this time, maybe five seconds between flash and boom, and the rain grew incrementally colder. She washed his left hand, examining the slightly-puckered graft scar on his pinkie and down his left arm. She cleansed the grated knuckles where he'd punched Little Patty. She kissed them, licked them until the cuts opened up and he felt them sting. She tasted the soap and blood on her lips, then she held that hand up to the sky to be rinsed clean. She lathered up his right hand, and he felt it stinging his skin along the wrist bone where Michael had shot him, felt the healing bone deep inside, and the slightly-atrophied muscles ached and twitched when she massaged them deeply with her slim, deft fingers.

She lathered his broad chest, and he felt as if she was trying to polish a window into his heart, and his heart yearned to leap out and nest with hers, between her swelling breasts. Lightning crashed over the vineyard, much too closely this time. They both screamed a little, jumped and laughed. They heard a hissing, rattling roar approaching.

She started to smell ozone, and started dragging him back to the house. "You want _me_ to get struck by lightning?"

His eyes widened. "Hell no." He grabbed her hand, and a wall of white, pea-sized hail chased them laughing into the mud room.  
•

* * *

Petros smirked over at Mephistopheles as he watched them run inside.

"Told you," he smirked. "She's good at this."

"Aww, fiddlesticks." Mephistopheles stalked away into the hailstorm with a grumble and a shrug. Just as Kate slammed the back door, a wild stroke of lightning hit the birdbath. The stroke boiled away the rainwater, sent the bowl spinning away into the dark like a discus, burned the soap to ash, shattered the little Atlas, and left a branched, smoking scar of fused glass on the lawn.

* * *

•

They stood on the rubber mat and dried off as well as possible with Kate's damp towels, both of them shivering and laughing a little at the weirdness of it all. They tossed the towels on the wood floor and used their feet to wipe up the puddles and wet footprints, then Rick tossed them in the kitchen sink to manage later. Kate took up the still-lit lantern, and Rick carried their bags upstairs. They took a brief shower together to warm up, dried off again, threw on the lightweight robes provided by the guest house, and readied for bed, saying only a few routine words –  
"Is the water warm enough?"

"Perfect."

"Here's the toothpaste."

"Thanks."

It could have been romantic, but they felt more like pioneers, bone-tired after slogging their way across a prairie, fighting bandits and tornadoes and flash floods. They were now down to the bare minimum: wash up, go to bed, sleep.

She sat on the bed with her back to him, and he combed her wet hair out. There was no blow dryer, so he squeezed it out as well as possible into a fresh towel until it was barely damp, then braided it so it wouldn't be too tangled in the morning.

"Mind if I leave the lantern burning?" he said.

"Night light? Good idea." She slipped into bed, turning the covers down for him as well, and she said it again. "Oh, my God, this is amazing." It was a little softer than Castle's bed at the loft, a little harder than her old queen-size bed at her apartment... perfect. The sheets were flannel, utterly cozy, soft as a cloud. He went and hung their damp towels in the bathroom, and when he returned, she opened her eyes to find him watching the candlelight play across her face, but didn't chide him for creepy staring as she usually would.

"I'm sorry, Babe. So tired." She held up the covers for him.

He nodded. "Me too."

He crawled in. She said "Spoon me?"

"Sure." She lay on her side, and began drifting to sleep almost immediately with her ass tucked against his hips and his arm over her. But she felt an occasional shiver pass through his naked frame as their bodies nested, and he seemed really tense. Normally she might have just fucked it out of him, but that didn't seem right.

"You okay?" she whispered, half-hoping for no response, that he was resting.

He was wide awake."Sleep on me, while you still can?"

"I'd love that."

He rolled onto his back (suppressing a groan) and she hitched over to lie right atop him ("Let me know if I'm squishing you"), with her head on his chest, and her belly between his thighs.

He groaned softly, his voice rumbling through both of them. "Mmmm. Perfect." Her familiar weight left him feeling cradled and safe. With his heartbeat in her ear, she fell asleep almost immediately. He kept a long vigil, or at least it felt long to him. On his back, he realized he could see the big antique mirror across the room: the four-poster, the soft drapes on the cross-pieces above, the piled pillows, Kate's back with her braided hair snaking over them, his own face peering out above her head. To him, his own shadowed eyes looked like those of a skull. But he moved his hand, rubbing down her back, feeling her silky skin, the soft cotton sheet and the puffy heft of the quilted duvet. That which he saw corresponded roughly to what he could feel, and it was oddly reassuring. Eventually the lantern ran out of fuel, and he lay in the dark, watching the rain lash against the windows, pulling Kate closer at the occasional flash or rumble, fully conscious of each of her breaths, the gentle weight of her head on his chest, one of her arms on his ribs, the other embracing his hip. He didn't let himself sob, but burning tears streamed out again for a little while; these welled up from gratitude and sheer exhaustion this time, not loss or pain. Somehow, he was finally able to match the rhythm of his breathing to hers. He slept.

The storm roared around the house until almost dawn, then gave up and went on its way to scare the crap out of Vermont.

* * *

_**A/N: Next chapter will find us in a Happy Place. :-) Thank you for reading.**_


	57. Chapter 57

**Too Soon Chapter 54 –  
Oh My God**

**rated R-ish**

A/N Rather like in Lord of the Rings, I could easily write an entire novella out of the denouement. I promise we really are nearly done now. I hope you're looking forward to our happy ending.

* * *

•

When Rick finally awoke in the guest house bed, he was utterly disoriented, only knowing that something was wrong because Kate wasn't there with him. He looked around, frantic. The linen curtains sifted the tree-shadows and soft light of mid-morning, and the birds outside sang as if they'd narrowly escaped death and were trying to make up for lost time.

"Hey, Castle. Right here." Kate was sitting in the rocker, reading a paperback she hadn't had time or energy to open during their trip. "I didn't want you to wake up alone." She pointed to a pint glass of water on the bedside table. "Thirsty?"

He sat up and croaked, "Thanks," then downed the whole thing. It took a moment for his heartbeat to settle. _"Act casual, Rick." _He stretched ("Ow!") and got up to empty his bladder, wash up a little, brush his teeth, and rinse the grit from his dry eyes. He called out from the bathroom_. _"How long have you been up?"

"Only about twenty minutes. Did you sleep much?"

"Maybe five hours." He stepped out of the bathroom to find her climbing back into bed. She gestured and he gladly flopped down next to her. He was still dog-tired, although he felt a bit better after having slept.

She said, "I'm trying to figure out why there are curtains and food and toothbrushes, but there are no light fixtures or appliances."

"Sounds like they have their priorities straight," he mused.

"Speaking of priorities..." she gave him a piercing, no-nonsense look, and suddenly, Detective Kate Beckett was in the room.

"Uh-oh. Here it comes."

"You could have gotten us killed last night. Or caught pneumonia."

"The pneumonia thing's an old wives' tale."

"I know, and I'm not even technically your wife yet..."

"Technically, you _are. _Nothing can take that away from us._" _He took her hand and kissed her wedding set. _ "_But it's just a _legality_. We'll fix it."

She persisted with her question. "So. Rick. What happened between finding a flashlight and stripping down to freak out in the rain?"

He shook his head. "I dunno. Maybe another panic attack," he winced. "I'm really sorry, Kate."

She rolled up onto her knees, then straddled him. "I know. But it's not your fault. In a way, it was a weird kind of fun. Intense."

"Okay."

"Do you remember what you were thinking?"

"Just... Feeling like I was being chased, somehow. Hunted in my own skin." He shuddered. "I just don't want to bring this stuff back to you. It's like a curse."

"No, Love," she said. "It's just a reaction to extreme stress." She thought a moment. "Dr. Burke gave me a method that's helped me sometimes, I'm sorry I didn't really think of it yesterday."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Desperate, here."

"It's called grounding..."

"I haven't been grounded since … okay, Alexis grounded me when I turned thirty and tried to break into a petting zoo after closing time..."

"Sh. Castle. Focus. Grounding. You stop yourself, and you _think_. Let yourself be in the present moment..."

He grinned and shifted his hips under hers. "I am in the present moment!"

"...by using your senses: 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste."

"This probably wouldn't work in a zombie apocalypse."

"But it could work in a popsicle-induced panic."

His whole body seemed to stiffen. His eyes squeezed shut, then flew open again.

"Sorry, sorry!" she cried. "So. That's called a trigger word."

"Right," he hissed through his teeth. "Trigger word. Okay. A little too soon, there."

"I think you've made amazing progress in... wow, maybe forty hours?"

"We were in Ireland yesterday. Adjusting for time zone changes, maybe thirty-two. I keep thinking if I pinch myself I'll still be in that basement. Or the attic." He shuddered. He hadn't told her about the attic yet... not to mention Greta's room.

She could see his calm was becoming seriously damaged, and she rubbed her hands up and down his arms soothingly. Her voice was firm and kind. "Tell me five things you can see."

Making a strained effort to cheer up, he batted his eyelashes at her and employed his most seductive smirk. "I only want to see one thing."

"Well, yes, but you can't be looking at your phone all the time."

"I mean you." He chucked her under the chin.

"I'm flattered. Tell me five things you can see. _Five_. Go. No, no touching yet." She had to switch to her cop voice. _"Hands at your sides." _

"Okay, okay, okay! Your smile. Your face. Your breasts. Do those count as two?"

"Maybe not for the purposes of this exercise."

"Okay, your... torso. The room. The bed. Did you notice you can see the mirror from the bed?"  
"That's seven."

He pouted. "Can't I cheat just a little?"

"Sure. But now, what can you touch?

"Your hair." He smoothed a stray lock back behind her ear.

"Your lips." His finger traced them, very lightly.

"Your..." his hands glided down her neck and shoulders. "Bosom."

She giggled. His hands moved further down, along her ribs and back to cup her ass. "Your... utterly luscious backside."

"That's four," she said.

"Should I touch the sheets?" he said.

"Not for the purposes of this exercise," she breathed.

His left hand came up a little, rubbing her lower back where it got sore when she spent too long a day in heels. He glided his right hand across the top of her thigh, then slipped it down between her legs.

Kate's eyes sparkled, but he just barely touched her, holding back what she wanted. She grunted in frustration. "Sorry, horny pregnant woman here. I shouldn't distract you."

His voice was husky. "It's only fair, considering how many times I've distracted you." Now he pressed in on her lower back and pressed up with his other hand, and she rocked a moment as the sensation released a soft moan.

He smiled. "Oh, you like that, do you?"

She nodded.

"The next is … let's see. Hearing?"

She said, "Yeah."

His expression changed. His eyes were still on her face, but his vision seemed slightly unfocused. "Birds," he murmured. "Mockingbirds and... maybe some kind of sparrow."

"Mmmhmm," she said.

"You, saying _'M__mmhmm__'_," he said, and added, when she did, "also giggling. Now lean back, just a little." He sat up straighter, supporting her as she shifted. "Hold onto my shoulders."

He laid his ear against her chest, and started moving his right finger in slow, tantalizing strokes. "Your breathing. An increase in your heart rate."

She said softly, "Ah! Oh, migod that feels good."

"That was two things. No, three."

"You're totally cheating now," she moaned. Her hand played over his nipples, down his belly. Everything twitched.

He growled and took her hand away. "No, no, now I have to smell, right? Two things?"

He snuffled into her armpit and she drowned in giggles. He licked and sucked each of her nipples in turn, then ran his tongue up her throat, and the giggles turned to gasps and moans. He sniffed her hair, and leaning forward, the heel of his hand pressing against her sex, one finger teasing, just outside. She was moving her hips rhythmically now, unable to stop, not wanting to even if she could.

He said, "You smell amazing. Like _you_. Your hair still smells like rain."

"I have you to thank for that," she murmured.

"If you want to thank me, help me complete my assignment," he said. "Stand up."

"Stand...?"

"This is what four-posters are for, Kate."

"You sound so... reasonable." She stood, clinging to the bed frame for support, smiling down at him. He propped himself on the pillows until he was nearly upright, and kissed her belly, then her inner thighs, working his way up and in. He inhaled deeply and uttered something between a growl and a sigh. "You definitely smell pregnant," he grinned up at her.

She looked at him anxiously. "That's okay, right?"

"_O__hh__h_, yeah," he growled. "And you taste like Venus on the half shell." She laughed. Then she stopped laughing. "Ohhhhh, mmmmmyyyyy goddddddd," she groaned.

He did his best Inigo Montoya imitation: "I do not think those words mean what you think they mean."

"Yes they do," she choked, and widened her stance while she steadied herself on the bed frame, knees turned out in a plié, his fingers and tongue and satiny lips teasing her, making her chase the sensation with everything tantalizing and nothing enough. "Castle..." she was nearly out of control. "PLEASE," she groaned. "Just... oh, God, Rick, just..."

He looked up at her and grinned wickedly. "I'm just being in the moment..." She was half-whimpering, half laughing, her fingers plucking and brushing against her own hard, deep-rose nipples.

He watched her a moment. "I swear those have grown overnight...

"Castle... I'm gonna kill you..."

"No you won't. You're gonna make me live forever, just so I can keep kissing you." He went back to his work, and her hips bucked and trembled as he brought the tempo up slowly, stilling and backing off pressure when she tried to speed it up.

With a hint of frustration she backed away and then squatted down over his lap, so close he could feel her hovering warmth over his arousal.

With great effort, he denied her. "Nuh-uh, Mrs. Beckett-Castle-Beckett. We're not rushing this one."

"I need... oh!" She kissed him, panting, "I need to lie down."

He smiled indulgently. "Now you just lie back and think of Ireland, I'll take care of everything." Ungracefully, but adorably, she tumbled back with her head by the foot of the bed (for some reason that seemed simpler than her rotating up) and now he was on his hands and knees, obviously more than ready, but holding back, his eyes constantly on her face, watching her reactions as he teased her, sucked and licked her, caressed her, played with her with a slow and patient creativity that drove her nearly to the edge several times over the course of an hour or so. And every time she close her eyes, then opened them again, she found his blue gaze soaking her in. It was only fair, this teasing. They had done this to one another repeatedly over the course of their relationship, first verbally, then emotionally, then physically. The great breakthrough always came when the teasing built just past the point where it was bearable, and true loving mutuality took over.

He put his mouth on her sex again, and finally let her find a rhythm, wound her up to almost the breaking point. She'd read a little about Kundalini, and taken a silly class on the Goddess in her Hoo-Ha. She had trouble taking it all seriously, trouble admitting even to Rick how deeply this went between them. But all cynicism aside, she'd felt it before with him as she never had with anyone else: radiating energy from an involute point, somewhere at the base of her spine, something that flowed in from him and meshed with her, not just physically but in a way beyond words, where sex was the physical embodiment of prayer.

"Please," she said again. "Please come in."

"I want to come inside you," he murmured, and she opened her legs wide, pulling his hips up and locking him in close. She was incredibly strong despite her willowy appearance, and she frowned when he still resisted. Richard Castle had lost control over several key aspects of his life, but thankfully, his timing wasn't one of them. He was strong too, and he hovered just outside her while she fought to bring him closer.

"Ssshh," he said nonsensically, but she understood and loosened her grip, smiling at him tenderly. His head found the sweetest spot in the world. "Pearly little gates of heaven," he murmured.

She whimpered in desperation. Finally he let her have her way, and he reveled that she could let him _in_ so deeply, so hard. Then she pushed so tightly that he was nearly expelled like a cork, and he had to push back, fiercely, his hips grinding into her, just to stay as she fluttered around him, a vortex of sensation and energy. And then they both pulled away, and it was like a Chinese finger trap, a delicious embrace of heat and friction. He blazed back into her again, and again. At first he kept his rhythm achingly slow, all the way in and all the way out again, each time a revelation. They sped their rhythm over time, and he could feel her building to a peak. He kissed her, face and breasts and throat and lips, and she sucked hard on his tongue at the same moment she slipped a finger against her own sex. She pulled him in so tightly he felt he might just shoot up into her brain, all the way up her spinal column.

_"This moment," _he gasped. He watched her face the whole time, watched her seeing stars, heard her keening, felt their pulsing bodies joined at the center like one live creature wrapped in itself, smelled sex and the very faintest hint of lemon verbena and lightning, tasted her kisses and sweat then tears and kisses again.

Is there a sixth sense for time? He felt something way beyond five sense, the way the universe rushes into and out of time and space, compressing and unfolding into something first possible then new, with each passing moment branching off in fractals of yes and yes and yes, and... Is there a seventh sense for love, for connection, for knowing beyond knowing? He didn't close his eyes, knowing that this was the moment he would remember. Hers was the joyful, loving – yes, ecstatic - face his mind would see when death finally claimed him. Nothing could have made him happier. "I'm here," he cried out, something like a sob. _"Right here." _

Her eyes flew open, boring into him, her mouth open in awe and silent assent, and he exploded into her, and she took him in, took it all in, their bodies humming and sparking like live wire. All he could do was follow the sensation, feeling a part of himself become a part of her.

They sank into one another, still entwined, still so very close, stroking one another's faces and bodies with gentle hands and mouths, murmuring _'I love you'_s and _'Oh, my God'_s and _"mmmm"_, riding on the last waves. Then they slept again.

Rocked to sleep, Small, who was making a brand new layer of brain cells, slept right through.

* * *

•

A few hours later, they awoke starving, with Kate a little dizzy, and padded down to the kitchen in nothing more than their skivvies. They raided their picnic cooler, and Rick realized there were dry goods and spices up in the cupboard.

He scowled. "This place needs more spices. And why do almost all of them start with the letter C? Total pain to alphabetize."

Kate said, "Then there's T. Thyme, Tarragon, Turmeric."

"So why do so many herbs start with T? Here's the cinnamon at least. I think we should re-name coriander seed to something like "Musk Lime." He whipped up some pancakes and eggs while Kate made fruit salad. He had coffee, she had herbal tea, they both had plenty to eat and played footsie under the table. All in all, a damn good morning.

They took a quick shower together, dressed, and toured the rest of the house. Down in the stone basement, with the big flashlight, Kate said, "Not much to see here, but it shows how big the house is. Lots of potential." There were a couple of ground-level windows, and an ancient, rusted boiler too heavy to remove, and a brand-new forced air heating system that would be necessary between October and April. Kate looked at the brand on the heater and said, "Pretty penny for this one."

She turned to Rick, who was screwing around with his own tiny LED flashlight. It was only big enough to light up the bottom of his nostrils. Not exactly scary...

She said, "So you used to come up and hang out here with Matt. Anyone else?"

He twinkled at her. "Once a couple of of girls showed up. They were looking for the waterfall further up the mountain. Wearing Daisy Duke cutoffs and bikini tops."

Kate tittered. "Ah. Haute couture."

"Kelly and Laurie. They had a bottle of strawberry wine. I had a jackknife and they needed a... corkscrew."

"So that worked out well?"

His suppressed grin said everything. "Oh, yeah. Corks got popped, all right."

She stopped on their way up the stairs. "Wait, there's a waterfall?"

"Yeah, it's up on the mountain about a half-mile away. Comes down from a spring between the two peaks. It's one of the headwaters for the Hudson, though it just feeds a little creek up here."

"I love waterfalls."

"We can take a hike up later, if you feel like it."

"Sure. You're not sore from yesterday?"

"A little." She could tell by the way he'd practically crawled out of bed that was an understatement. "But I think some whining, complaining, sweating and panting would do me good."

"You've already done some sweating and panting today. Such the outdoorsman."

"I still have a jackknife with a corkscrew."

She looked him up and down and drawled, "Yes, Castle, I'm sure you do."

Back on the first floor, they walked back into the main room. Kate glanced across at the door by the fireplace, and said, "We forgot to look in there last night. You think it's another bedroom?"

He shrugged. "Most likely. Maybe a smoking room. Trophy room. Sex dungeon. Could be anything."

"In a guest house? I bet it's a TV room." Beckett reached it first, opened the door wide, and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Oh, my God," she said, yet again.

"Wow," he added.

She said, "It's a turret."

"So it is."

"Three stories. With a spiral staircase."

"Yeah."

"And bookshelves going all the way up."

"True. All the way up."

She turned to him with a puzzled scowl. "It's a library?"

"Seems to be that way. Let's go up to the top."

She went up first, with him following more slowly. At the mezzanine, he found her staring out the window into the trees. The turret extended above the house's roofline for the most part, and there were windows for all four points of the compass. A woodpecker flashed by, and a couple of squirrels played tag in the branches of a chestnut tree. She walked over and picked up a battered old hardcover copy of _Winnie the Pooh_.

Rick said, "Poor book. Looks lonely."

She smiled. "I loved this book when I was a kid."

"So your dad tells me."

She gasped and flipped it open with shaking hands. "Castle, this is _mine?_"

He said nothing, just grinned and looked out the window. "If you want it."

"I mean..." She turned the book to show him inside, her little bookplate with Johanna's handwriting:

_From the library of Miss Katherine Houghton Beckett_

"So he knew we'd be staying here?"

"I guess he did."

"Oh, my God." She was silent a moment. "You snooped my Dream House HotGlue site!"

He was smirking. "Your who-what-now?"

"HotGlue. The fireplace and the pellet stove. The window seat. The four-poster bed. The step-down tub, the pineapple, the FUCKING TURRET WITH THE FUCKING SPIRAL STAIRCASE?" She couldn't hide her glee, and she knew he was just about to spill over with it himself.

"They're very nice." He was trying to stay neutral and failing adorably.  
_  
__"_What about the book? Did my dad give it to you?"

"He gave it to _you_."

"Well, yes, when I was little, but..."

"All of it, Kate. Jim and I have been working on this since you agreed to marry me."

"So it's yours."

"Not exactly. I bought it at the same time as I went into partnership with Matt and Chloe. All the way up to the mountaintop. Had to do it because they were putting some MacMansions in, and that would've ruined the watershed."

"When did you rebuild it?"

"When I went over the prenup with your dad, he saw photos and thought it had potential. So, when we got engaged, I sold it to the James Houghton Beckett Family trust."

"You're kidding." She peered at the adjustable shelves on the bookcases, then at the windows.

He said, "Double paned with argon gas in between for insulation," he said. "UV treated so the books won't fade."

"This place must have cost..."

The land purchase had set him back a bit over $14 million. He'd been riding high on Derrick Storm and a couple of mysteries that rivaled Patterson's on the #1 spot, and when he donated his share of the mountain back to the New York Wilderness Preservation Land Trust, he got the option to build three small houses provided that they were off-grid and sustainably constructed.. He hadn't exercised that, but he just might spring it on her later, see how she felt about it. "Not that much! We used a lot of reclaimed materials to reflect your environmentalist streak."

"It's not just a _streak_."

He shrugged. "Stripe. Jim wanted it to be a wedding present. I wanted to make sure he'd take care of it," Castle winked. This was something of a joke, since Jim Beckett was not only wealthy in his own right, having rebuilt his career and fortune steadily since getting into recovery, but he was also just a bit on the cheap side. "I made Jim pay me a whole dollar. Plus he covers the property taxes and some of the remodel costs."

"You sold it to him before we were even _married_?" Kate set down the book, looking up at him somberly. "So if anything happened to you..."

He made a timid, semi-apologetic shrug, afraid to put it the wrong way, faced with something much bigger than he knew how to handle. "Yeah. I knew it was only a matter of time before a showdown with 3XK. Whether or not we were married, and I had no idea you'd be so easy to knock up..." he grinned a little. "With this, you'd have a place to go. Away from the city, but not as far as your family's cabin. In case you... didn't want to stay at the loft or go through the hell of trying to find a new place in Manhattan before you were ready. Of course that was before you rented out your apartment, but.."

"Oh, Castle." She hugged him tightly.

"It gave me something to look forward to while you were in DC," he said, and she could feel the residual sadness, how much they had missed one another, how closely they had come once again to losing everything. He added more cheerfully, "Also, it's well above the tsunami zone if Earth gets hit by a comet."

"Now I feel safe," she said drily. "So you've left me to select the appliances and fixtures and furniture I liked."

"This can really be us. That is, if you like it. Do you?"

"Oh, my God, Castle, I love it." She looked around, delighted. The highest floor of the tower was almost like a treehouse, surrounded by leafy branches with the windows open to the clear blue sky. "It's so different from the loft, and from the Hamptons house." Then she put her arms around his waist. "But I can see you in it, too."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "The loft was too much me and not enough you."

"Also maybe a bit too much interior decorator." She paused. "And lately a bit too much stalking serial killer. But, what about the City?"

"We can _live_ anywhere you want. This is just a retreat, if it's too much of a commute. We thought that if you didn't like this place, your dad might move into it when he retires, whatever works for him. But no matter where we wind up, I want you to make our home your own, Kate. Our... homes. We can sell the loft and the Hamptons house and pick out something together. You have amazing taste."

She blushed. "You think so?"

"Hell yeah." He preened his hair with mock vanity. "In men." His face grew serious, and he placed both hands on her shoulders."I just need to be with you. I learned that when you moved to DC. Never again."

She pouted slightly. "Never again DC?"

"Never again living apart." He kissed her. "But do you have any idea how many chandeliers you have on your house-porn page? Twenty-eight."

"Thirty. I added a couple last week."

"You'll have to narrow it down a little. And nothing with vertebrae."

She arched an eyebrow, wondering what the hell he'd seen in Murphy's house. "No vertebrae. We can swap them out seasonally."

"Ah." He squeaked, "'Mommy, If it's stained glass, it must be spring!'"

She patted her tummy. "Mommy." Then looked back up at him. "In a year, we'll have a kid here with us. Five months old?"

"Weird, huh?" He smiled. "Sometimes I still have trouble believing... I mean, did I really help make Alexis? Where does a new person really come from?"

At that point, Small would probably have said, _"Who cares, as long as they get enough ginger __cookies__?" _

Kate just smiled and shrugged. "I'm willing to leave it a mystery. But I think it's as close to a miracle as anyone can reasonably expect to get. Look, let's go down to the storage barn... also I think we have a couple of calls to make."

He nodded. She said reluctantly, "I guess we should go back to the City tonight..." she looked down the wrought-iron staircase's spiral, suddenly noticing the compass inlaid in the floor. "This place really is incredible, Castle."

They headed down the stairs, and he said, "Look at this!" The went to the north point in the compass, and it was delineated by a golden star. "Isn't that cool?"

They kissed again, and stood a moment, right on the star, hugging. She spoke into his chest, and he realized she was still awfully tired from their previous days' adventures. "I don't really want to leave just yet, but I'm out of clothes and we should check in with family. And the Twelfth. And I need to get online and order a washer and dryer for this place. We're gonna need it. When can we get the power switched on?"

He smiled. "It's already on. Solar on the roof. A wind generator up the hill."

"But... no lights?"

"No light _fixtures_."

"Castle..."

"But wasn't it romantic? All except for the part where I had a panic attack and nearly got us killed?"

"Well, yeah."

She looked around the room. "I could have my desk here. And there's room for a couple of chairs..."

Hand in hand, they were walking through the house again, visualizing how it could look. "Your leather sectional here, in front of the fireplace..."

"_Our_ leather sectional," he corrected.

"There needs to be a rug in front of the fireplace. Red wool."

"For hot illicit floor sex?"

"Yes, but no. That's a nice soft alpaca rug, upstairs in front of our pellet stove. This rug's for Betsy," she said.

"Betsy?" he squeaked.

"If not Betsy, another dog. We'll need a watchdog. But I know you guys have a... thing. I mean, she's a great dog, but you two... you're like litter-mates." She gave him a gentle, teasing dig with her elbow.

"So you're saying you think we can handle having a dog and a kid at the same time?"

Kate shrugged. "Sure. Didn't you tell me that Mo has a little girl?"

Rick paused here, anxious. "I've never had a dog before. How's Nuwwar gonna feel if..."

"Let's just ask. Maybe he's gonna have Betsy bred soon."

If Castle had had a tail, it would have been wagging. As it was, just the vision of it opened up his lowest chakra, which Kate's yoga teacher would have noticed had been _seriously_ stuck over the past few months.

He said, "Okay," and, moving on, bracketed his hands into a rectangle, trying to picture the shelves full of their shared collections. "And a curio shelf here. My grandfather Richard's phrenology head and your collection of weird little birds."

"They're not weird. They're eclectic," she huffed. "Hey, did you think about where you want your office?"

"First door on the right upstairs."

"Second door is play room?"

"Bingo. Next door after that?"

"The first baby's room. By ours.

"First baby?"

"Well," she said. "I'm under the impression we'll have three kids, and we already have Alexis, so..."

Castle said nothing, but his eyes were so huge, so bright, and he had rarely looked more in love with her, which is saying a lot. Sometimes he really did take her breath away, just by being himself.

She stammered, "...And then when they're a little older, they'll want their own rooms. I mean, assuming the first one... works." Her brow wrinkled. "I know things happen."

He tilted his head, then brought her in for a hug. "Are you worried?"

"Yeah, but I worry about everything. I want an ultrasound machine so I can check on Small five times a day."

Rick held her a little closer. "I thought I was the one with a penchant for gadgets." He wasn't really teasing her. "Let's get you another checkup when we get back to the city. We can ask for amniocentesis if you want."

She nodded. "That has its risks." Then she hesitated. "I thought I felt Small move last night. Might just have been gas. It seems early according to the book." (The book being _'What to Expect When You're Expecting'_, of course.)

"I'm sure everything's fine," he said gently.

She collected herself, going back on-task. "That leaves us with only this one guest room."

"I suppose we could convert the attic into a sleeping loft. Or maybe we could make that the playroom. Ooh. Maybe a screening room? There's a guest suite over the garage."

"The... oh. I didn't even think about that. Wait, we have a _garage_?"

"Let's get dressed and I'll take you on the tour outside." Clasping her hand, he led her out front while she held her other hand over her eyes. She was fairly bouncing with excitement. He turned her around, and her mouth fell open in astonishment.

The house itself was built mostly of stone, the wood trim painted white. It was two-story with additional gable windows indicating a full, usable attic. The turret jutted proudly at the northwest corner. Every single window had cranberry-red storm shutters that contrasted with the white trim and variegated gray stone.

"I didn't bother to mess with the storm shutters last night, but they're fully functional. In case a big one hits."

"Good idea," she smiled, arching an eyebrow. "Also in case of..."

"Zombie invasion. You think of everything!" he laughed.

A covered walk extended to a detached garage. Castle said, "Three-car, plus workshop. I was thinking of taking up welding..."

She got a picture in her mind of Castle wearing welding gloves, and her panties went damp at the mere thought. Instead she said, "We're gonna need a first aid kit and put the hospital on speed dial."

"A little faith, here?" he pouted.

But she ignored that, pulling him in close. "I just can't wait for you to show me your toolbox."

His voice cracked. "Hammers. Screwdrivers. Plumb lines..." he ran a finger straight down her spine, she giggled and wiggled and kissed him then hurried away, with him following hopefully, as she appraised the garage's exterior. The upstairs had gabled windows, and the slanted roofs were outfitted with solar panels. "It's bigger than my dad's cabin!"

"Well, we might have both Mother and Jim living here at some point in the distant future. I think she'd drive him insane so quickly she wouldn't even notice it was happening."

"What about Jackson?"

Rick's expression went stony. "We'll see."

"You don't trust him?"

"Do you? I mean, yes, with my life I would. He's great as a resource, great in a fight. Very _useful_. Also perfectly willing to use me when the situation calls for it."

Kate nodded. "He also has something of a checkered past." She thought of the tortured bodies they'd found in their hunt for Alexis' kidnappers, and shivered.

Rick acknowledged what she was thinking. "Whether he has consequences to deal with from his past career, or whether he has the … guts to stay around and be part of a family... who knows?"

"I think he loves all of you."

"Maybe he does, and maybe you're part of the package. But love is a feeling. Acting on it is another thing," he sighed. "We both know that too well."

She nodded and kissed his hand. "I'm just so glad we didn't leave it too late. I hope he hasn't, either." They walked to the west of the house, in the shadow of immense oaks and maples, where the tower loomed over a shade garden of azaleas, hosta and foxgloves. It was cool and dreamy even on this warm, rather steamy day.

Rick said, "We talked about putting a lily pond in here, but decided to wait on it. Toddler safety."

Kate nodded thoughtfully and patted her tummy. They stepped onto the walkway and used it to circle around to the southeast face of the house – the backyard – where a porch extended full length. Then came the patio, with the adirondack chairs, and the lawn where Kate had washed Rick down. Although the valley below stretched out green, clean and sparkling after the rain, today they didn't even notice it. Instead, they both startled at the blasted remains of the birdbath. There were a few bits of poor Atlas scattered about – a knee here, an elbow there. Rick found Atlas' nose stuck into the crack of an Adirondack chair.

Kate said, "I'm not really too sorry about that."

Rick nodded. "I think the previous owners must've bought it from the gift shop at Graceland. But it was kind of funny."

Kate was quiet, staring at one of the trees at the edge of the terrace. "Castle, look."

It was a youngish oak tree, with a trunk perhaps 18" in diameter. The disk-shaped stone bowl of the birdbath had apparently spun off through the air and slammed so hard into the trunk that it was half-embedded.

He chuckled grimly, walking toward it, and then cursed as he tripped over something but caught himself, hopping on one foot. "Ow, what the..." The grass in a 2' diameter circle of lawn was blackened, and an odd, twisted shape like a root was heaved up out of the wet ground.

"Ohmigod, Beckett, do you know what this is?" He was on his knees in the wet grass, digging away.

"Tree root?"

"No! It's Fulgurite!"She stepped closer and looked down at it. "Full..."

"Fulgurite. Heat-fused earth. Lightning must have struck right here."

Kate's hackles rose along the back of her neck.

"Castle," she said. "We're going down to the farm now. We're going to go online, and we're gonna take care of a few things. Get up." She would have helped him up but his hands were all muddy. He went to the hose spigot by the back porch and rinsed his hands and bare feet.

"What things?"

"We're going to find a good local electrician. We're going to order..." she counted them off on her fingers. "A washer. A dryer. A dishwasher. A light fixture at least for the kitchen and the upstairs hallway."

"Oh, you noticed it's dark too?"

"Creepy!" She laughed. "But you know what we're gonna have him install first."

He nodded. "Yeah. Lightning rod." 

* * *

**There is a "naughty bits" version but I won't be posting it online. DM me if you really must read the details. ;-) **


	58. Chapter 58

_**Too Soon Chapter 52 - Independence Day  
or, We Need To Talk**_

**July 4, 2014  
**  
**The Twelfth Precinct**  
Ryan, Esposito, and Hunt continued on to the Twelfth, where Hunt dropped them off and continued out to the suburbs to pick up Martha and Alexis.

The boys checked in with Captain Gates. They entered with their light luggage, logy with exhaustion and Dom Perignon. They might even have giggled a little bit in the elevator. "No mustard on this ride."

Gates was off her crutches for the ankle she sprained kicking her TV room door down. She looked tiny in her flat heels and sleek pantsuit with the walking cast halfway to her knee. The rest of the Twelfth were making "Welcome back, lovebirds" noises at Rysposito, and Ryan just shot back, "Hey. You win a free vacation through the Irish Sweepstakes, you go."

Esposito faked the worst possible Irish accent imaginable. "Sure and begorah, all the Guinness you can swill."

Ryan slugged him with his manpurse. He'd emptied out the electronics first, though.

Gates beckoned them into her office. She shut the door and the blinds. "Detective Shaw just confirmed that Tiffany Ross is at the hospital, and her parents are there to meet her. How was your flight back?"

"Good," said Esposito. "She went through some scary sh- experiences, but ..." he patted his own butt. "Ross's biggest concern was gaining some weight."

Gates' brows clashed together like fighting elephant seals in breeding season. "_Really_." She folded her arms and scowled.

Ryan said, "Yeah, apparently they were fattening her up to, uh..."

"Part her out," said Esposito. "A thousand bucks a pound."

"Euros," corrected Ryan. The conversion rate..." he had to think about it.

Gates grimaced. "Oh, dear Lord."

Ryan said, "That house was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen."

"That's saying a lot." She looked them both over. "How are Beckett and Mr... Beckett?"

"She's good. Going in for a checkup tomorrow. Castle..." Esposito hesitated. "I dunno."

Gates nodded, and glanced at Ryan. Ryan twitched a little. "Look, give him credit. He's no coward, and he took down a guy half as big again as he is."

Gates and Esposito just looked at Ryan. He added awkwardly, "But Castle's a mess. I thought he was gonna fall apart when he looked in the freezer."

"What was in the freezer?" said Gates.

"He wouldn't let us look," said Ryan.

"_Let_ you?"

"He opened it looking for some ice, then he just stood there looking at it a second, then he closed the door and said, 'There's no ice.' But he looked like he'd seen a ghost. I thought he was gonna be sick. Then we heard explosions and got the hell out."

"I didn't know about it," said Esposito. "I was upstairs, with, uh..." his voice trailed off.

"Agent Gashkouri," said Ryan.

"Yeah, and Grandma Munster. And a mummified Christmas creche with bodies..."

Gates interrupted, "All right, this is a bit more information than I wanted right now. I hope you enjoyed your unpaid vacation. You are assigned two days of unpaid administrative leave, and I'll expect a _full_ report by the 8th. Meantime, have a good July Fourth, Detectives."

She reached into her desk for her purse. "I'm going home to make potato salad."

Ryan and Esposito were both surprised. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. And by that, I mean, _"Don't mention it." _

"Right."

Esposito turned to leave, but Ryan stopped at the door. "See ya, bro." He knew Javi had made plans with a certain someone.

Gates paused, while Esposito continued on. "Detective Ryan?"

"Sir, uh, we need to talk."

* * *

•

**Lanie's Apartment**

Lanie had already cried, recovered her equilibrium, and cleaned up beautifully by the time Javi rang the doorbell. She kept the look simple: a little lip rouge and highlighting blush, no eye makeup, a soft halter dress in a floral pattern. Enough of The Girls showing so that he'd remember what he'd be missing in future.

She opened the door, and gave him a sincere smile, a friendly but not clingy hug. "Welcome back. You want a drink?"

He stepped inside. Her apartment was cool and air-conditioned against the swamp of early July humidity. "Uh, yeah. You have any pop?

"No. But I have ice tea. I'm going to a barbecue tonight. Potluck." She went to the fridge. "You like lemon, right?"

"Yeah."

She always pre-sweetened it, her grandma's recipe, only with the sugar cut down by two thirds. A tall glass, five ice cubes, a sprig of muddled mint, a squeeze of lemon, another wedge hanging on the side. A straw.

He watched her, grieving what he was about to walk away from. Lanie was such a precise person, always one with the little details.

He said, "What, no foofy umbrella?" She handed him the lemonade, and he took a long pull. "Man, airplanes dry me out."

She tried to smile, but her eyes were sad. She was already halfway through her own glass. "You're welcome."

"It's good," he smiled. "Thanks!"

"Sit down?" she offered. They sat across, her with her legs curled under on the couch. Him on the chair, elbows on his knees, suddenly not wanting to look at her.

"So," she said. "We need to talk. What's her name?"

His head shot up in surprise. "Who told you?" He shook his head angrily. "Man, it was like a goddamn fishbowl..."

"Shhh. Nobody. Your texts sort of changed, last couple of days."

"Ameena."

"Don't tell me. Barmaid?..."

He scowled a little, said nothing.

She back-pedaled. "Okay, that was snarky. How did it happen?"

"She's an Irish agent." He told her the whole story, at least from his point of view, and finished up, "So much went down... so much I don't know, but..."

"But it was love at first sight." Lanie smiled a little. It was rueful, tender.

"For me. I'm not sure how she feels..."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He went stiff, trying to ignore it. She watched him stew a little and said, "Oh, go on, take a peek."

He checked his messages, face relaxing but back and shoulders stiff as a board. "She's, uh..." he paused, reading it to Lanie. _"Forensics cleared basement freezer. Assistant coroner fucking fainted. Wish u were here." _

Esposito gestured to Lanie. "Mind if I..."

Lanie sat back and took a sip of ice tea. "Just this once." She spent the next few moments examining her manicure – not fancy, just simple and feminine. She'd gone with a frosty lavender. That was last night, before she admitted to herself that something was wrong.

Esposito typed back, _"glad Im not there but wish u culd c NY on July4. Show u fireworks" _

Her reply was quick: _"BOOM! Xploding roof not enuf 4u?" _

He responded, _"Never enuf. Talk soon." _He put his phone away and looked up at Lanie.

She said, a little shakily, "You're a good man, Javi."

"I don't feel so good right now."

"That's just the heat talking. Drink your tea." She stood up and smiled down at him. "You've been looking to settle down for a while now, but I was never gonna be the one."

"_Seriously_? I..."

"Look. It's been fun. We had fun in the sack, we have fun with our friends, we have as much fun as humanly possible at work... but day to day, the only way we'd be finishing each other's sentences is …'not if I kill you first'."

He looked torn between relief and sadness. "We okay then?"

She tilted her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Not quite yet. But we will be."

They shared a sad smile, and he stood to go. "Thanks for understanding."

She nodded, they embraced briefly, and he left, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

•

**Castleton Avenue, Staten Island, NY**  
Kevin Ryan arrived in a cab at his mother-in-law's Staten Island bungalow. Jenny was at the door and halfway down the stairs before Ryan could even tell the driver "Wait here."

She hurled her arms around him, planted a massive kiss, and whispered, "Get me the hell out of here before I kill someone."

He chuckled, so happy to see her he didn't care she was wound up like a watch spring. "Let's get the baby first."

They hurried back upstairs, and Kevin took a moment to greet his mother-in-law, sweeping the baby into his arms then bouncing her gleefully and covering her tummy with kisses. "Here's my Sara Grace!" he cried, and the baby burst into tears. "What," he said. "What did I do?"

"You know how it is," Jenny's mother said. Moira Duffy-O'Malley was always happy to impart her womanly wisdom, no matter whether anyone wanted to hear it. "They get shy of strangers at this age."

Jenny was hauling suitcases and baby bags down to the curb; the driver was stuffing them into the cab trunk. She rolled her eyes at Kevin in passing.

"No," said Kevin. "She's usually so happy to see me."

"Well," sniffed Moira. "I'm sure she's dealing with some abandonment issues. She's grown a lot in eight days. A really involved father wouldn't voluntarily miss out on that, even for a free vacation."

Jenny broke in: "Mom, a really involved father just earned enough to..."

Kevin shot his wife a warning look... it wasn't supposed to be common knowledge. "I skyped every day!"

Moira sneered, "So does Elmo, but he's just a puppet on TV."

Ryan took a deep breath over the baby's crying, looked down at his little girl, and squeaked, "Elmo wants to go home now. Yeah."

Sarah Grace stopped crying, staring at her father's mouth. "Ehm."

"Did you see that? Did you see that? Has she been talking while I was gone?"

Jenny beamed at the baby, who cooed at her. "No, no, Kev, this is the first..."

Moira said, "That wasn't a word."

Kevin squeaked at Sarah Grace. "Was Sarah Grace mad that Daddy left?"

Sarah grace chortled. "Da!"

Moira's mouth opened and closed. Jenny was jumping up and down. "You said Daddy! Can you say Mommy?"

"mumumumumum."

Moira said, "You know, developmentally speaking..."

"Gotta go," Kevin squeaked. "Elmo's meter's running. Yeah." He embraced his mother-in-law quickly and pecked her on the cheek, then handed the baby off to Jenny. He dashed in for the porta-crib and a suitcase the size of a small refrigerator, wrestling them down the stairs in record time and into the cab.

Jenny said, "Thanks so much for having us, Mom, I'll never forget it."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for..."

"No, no, we need to get home. Kevin's exhausted."

Ryan, meanwhile, had his bottom sticking out of the cab passenger seat as he tangled with the baby seat's labyrinthine safety straps. The cab driver was leaning in the other side, saying, "No, no, now he half to face forward."

"Are you sure?"

"I have five baby, I should know about this things."

"Five! Really? Man, that's great."

Kevin pulled back on the anchor straps one last time and the driver said, "This baby-sit not go no-where. No-how. No-way."

"Okay." Kevin grinned at the driver. "Good enough." He backed out and let Jenny lean in to get Sarah Grace settled. They buckled in.

Jenny's mom stepped down to the bottom of the stairs, her Guatemalan palazzo pants flapping around her Birkenstocks.

"Now Jenny, remember, nursing is no form of birth control..."

"Got it, Mom." Jenny's smile resembled a cute little bear trap made of pearls. She grimaced at the cabbie, hissing, "Get us the hell outta here."

Ryan leaned forward. "Ferry terminal, please."

The cabbie pulled out and everyone waved goodbye. "That's only six blocks away. You coulda walked it in half the time."

"My mom wanted to walk us there," Jenny said. "Step on it."

They didn't realize they'd forgotten the stroller until they tried to load everything onto the ferry. They just caught it, the cabbie scrambling to help them, and Ryan tipped him a $50. "Ten for each kid."

Jenny said, "Forget the stroller. I'll pick it up from Mom on Tuesday."

"But we won't be able to go any..."

"Were you planning on going somewhere?" she arched an eyebrow at her husband. "Because I have _plans _for you."

* * *

**Staten Island Ferry**  
As the ferry approached home, Sarah Grace fell asleep with her little face on Kevin's shoulder, and his other arm went around Jenny's. They sat on one of the beautiful, caramel-colored wooden benches, watching the Manhattan skyline. There were already people dressed for July Fourth celebrations, going back and forth on the ferry, waiting to catch the night's fireworks. They blew a lot of money but it was fun. But there was quiet bubble of peace around the Ryans.

Kevin stared off into the blue. "We need to talk," he said quietly.

Jenny looked up at him, concerned. "Everything okay, Kev?"

"Yeah. I just... I noticed something while we were in Ireland. A couple of things, actually."

"What?"

"Well, you know how hard it is dealing with just our folks... how much easier it is with all the brothers and sisters and cousins around."

"I'll say. Mom sure knows how to micromanage. The fourth time she re-diapered the baby, I thought about making her wear it on her head as a cunning little bonnet."

Kevin chuckled at the thought. "So what I saw was Castle and Beckett, and over the years I realized, they haven't been so good at fighting fair because they didn't get enough practice. They're both kinda lonely that way. Esposito's the same."

She nodded. "So all-or-nothing."

"That's what comes from always being the one to eat the last cookie in the bag."

Jenny thumped her chest dramatically and chuckled "It's all. About. Me."

"Yeah. Although, of course, it isn't. They all know that." Kevin reached into his pocket. "I have this check for $50K in my pocket from Castle for this security gig I just did for him, and..."

"You are not going to Atlantic City. Or Vegas. Or buying lottery tickets."

"No. But it's a buffer we didn't have before."

"It's so much money. He goes so overboard sometimes." She shifted uncomfortably. "I mean I don't want to give it back, but I hope he doesn't regret it."

Ryan shrugged. "He won't. He offered, he can afford it, and he knows I'd have done it for free."

"Well, I don't see how we could ever pay him back."

"In cash? We don't owe him anything. But there's something else we can give him."

"Oh?"

"They're gonna have this kid, and Kate's what, 34? How much time do they have before it starts getting harder? And with Alexis being so much older..."

"That kid's gonna be on their own a lot."

"Yeah. And do you know what else I noticed in Ireland?"

"No..."

"Irish twins. Eating each other's cookies and fighting over their blankies... giving each other black eyes... Sure, their folks were a little hassled, a little tired, but hey, we're already hassled and tired, right?"

Jenny's eyes were starting to twinkle.

"I talked to Gates. Asked for more training in tech and management. Get myself out of the field so much, get my hours more stable."

"But won't that be a reduction in pay?" Jenny said cautiously.

"Gates thinks we could fast-track me toward Lieutenant. How does that sound? Spend a little more time chasing down white collar dirtbags, and less time getting the crap beaten out of me?"

"And if you don't get Lieutenant?"

"One way or another, I'm gonna lobby for extended paternity leave. Stay home for a year while you get out of the house and work a while."

"You want Irish twins?" Jenny laughed.

"Oh, yeah," Kevin kissed her on the forehead. "Maybe triplets. I wanna give Little Baby Castle a pile of Irish cousins."

She looked at him quizzically. "So this is all about Rick &amp; Kate?"

"No, Sweetie," he caressed her cheek. "This is all about family."

* * *

•

**Victoria Gates' home.**

Martha was waiting in Captain Gates' living room for the limo to take them back to the loft. Corinne lounged in the rental home hospital bed,, and retired captain Arthur Gates was napping quietly on the sofa with a newspaper over his face after having decorated the entire back yard with streamers and balloons. Alexis was sitting with the children at the kitchen table. They had made a white "refrigerator" cake with blue and red stripes of Jello poured in... Alexis had topped it with whipped cream, and the children were taking turns laying down stripes of raspberries and blueberries.

Alexis was already on her phone when the limo pulled up to Captain Gates' front yard. The two children bounced outside to meet it, bolting past Jackson to climb in back and investigate the fridge. There were cookies.

"It's okay, Dad, you and Beckett just go off and rest for a day or so. Gram and I will get the loft back together. Grandpa's here to pick us up now." She picked up her suitcase. "Oh, it's actually been really nice – the kids are so cute – but I feel SO ready to get home. At this rate I might be able to catch up my summer session... Of course I've been reading the material!" She laughed. "Gotta go. See you Monday. Tuesday's fine, too. I love you too."

Martha regarded her granddaughter soberly. "They're not coming?"

Alexis said quietly, "He said he needed some time alone to think."

"But what about..." Martha opened the front door and Jackson stepped in, looking a bit shy, but striking like an ancient king, the late-afternoon sun edging his white hair like gold on snow. She said, "Oh, there you are, Darling! Won't you come in and..."

"No, no, that's all right," he said. "I don't want to impose."

"But we shouldn't leave until Captain Gates gets home."

The man on the couch – Arthur Gates - sat up and yawned. "Captain Gates is on shift, and you are relieved of duty, Ms. Rodgers."

Corinne smiled at Martha and Alexis. "Vicky will be home in a few minutes. We'll be fine."

Alexis came to her bedside. "Thank you so much for having us stay. It's been wonderful."

Martha agreed. "As soon as you're back on your feet, we'd love to have you all up at the loft for brunch."

* * *

•

**Broome Street**  
But when they stepped into the loft, something felt wrong. Maybe because it had been sitting empty, evacuated hastily when they feared for their lives. Maybe because they all knew someone had been watching them there. Maybe it was because Rick wasn't there, and really he was the beating heart of that home. But whatever the reason, the loft felt too big, too open, too... violated. Alexis felt silly wanting to ask Jackson to check under her bed. Martha jumped a mile when the phone rang, just a friend inviting her to a dinner party, but her voice shook when she answered the phone. Jackson kept moving around the loft, checking the windows, peering at light fixtures, examining the locks. He looked in all the beds and closets, and all the lights were blazing. When Martha caught him fiddling with the goddamn ice dispenser, she said, "That's it. We're going to a hotel."

The Three Crowns staff was delighted to see them back, even though it was a holiday. Their returning guests were delighted to take a couple of smaller, last-minute rooms, which where still gorgeous by anybody's standards. They wound up watching the July 4th fireworks from the rooftop garden, sipping champagne, and after her second glass (because after weeks, she felt she finally had something to celebrate), Martha got up on a planter and sang the Star Spangled Banner. That went over rather well with all the other guests, who were excited to have a minor celebrity in their midst. After the fireworks were over, a large group of guests and friends-of-guests trooped down to the tea room, and there was an impromptu cabaret at the grand piano. David, who had the night off, wasn't there. All in all, the evening wasn't a total wash. But when they returned to their hotel room, Alexis said sadly, "This is the first July 4th I've ever spent away from Dad."

Martha took the young woman's face into her hands. "Well, Darling, maybe it's time we all cultivated a bit of independence."

They hugged good night. Martha and Jackson went off to their room, and Alexis settled down in hers. She sat awhile at a sweet little antique desk whose front opened on a hinge into a leather-covered writing surface. She kept a journal, as her English teachers (and, incidentally, her dad) had always encouraged her to do. She let the questions and thoughts flow out in no determined order, just to dump them all out of her brain and maybe get some sleep.

_"This feels so weird. Dad's changed so much since he met Beckett, or is it just me? I can't really believe he didn't come straight back to the City, even though I know I can't be the center of his life anymore. That would drive us both crazy. I'm too old for it and even though he seems old to me because he's my father, really he's too young __to stop changing__. Some people don't even get around to starting their __first__ family till they're 40. I know he loves me, he'll always love me and I'll always love him, but I wonder what our place will be in each other's lives in 20 years. He'll be in his 60's, and maybe I'll have a kid or two, so he'll be a grandpa. Will we be friends? Or just people we see once in a while but hang on because of tradition? Sometimes it's a surprise that he and Gram are still friends. They get so sarcastic with each other._

_Gram will be almost 90, Grandpa... wow, he could just disappear tomorrow! I don't even know his real name or how old he is, whether he has any other family. Whether we have family. I could have a pile of cousins out there I don't even know exist. Dad could have other siblings, and I hope to god they're not as scary as Michael was._

_I feel so bad for Dad. When I was little, __ I used to think he was purely a good man. That he would never do anything bad. But I know there have been gray areas in his personal life and maybe he hasn't been 100% following the rules in his police work, and then there are some questions about my kidnapping that haven't been answered. __I don't even want to think about how many people got killed when they came to rescue me. __I really don't know how they found me. It wasn't just the signal from that phone in Paris._

_He says that he started writing about murder because he wants to understand why people do what they do. But to me, it's all about fear, whether it's the protective fear of losing love or money, or fear of powerlessness. __I've seen it in forensics. Lanie knows things about people, and she's really accepting of it even though she's got a hard edge sometimes. Perlmutter, on the other hand... I don't think he's dead behind the eyes, but he's got a wide streak of misanthrope. I'd hate to have him turn on Dad and try to bring him down._

_This is such a huge mess. Dad's going to have to go up on trial, maybe take lie detector tests, and it won't just be testifying to put the bad guys behind bars. He's too mixed up in this, and everything about him will be under a magnifying glass. I still want to see the best in him!_

_But__ the whole world is going to learn the worst in him. I've always been Daddy's girl, but now... I need to give him room to be screwed up. It was all I wanted when I was with Pi. It's only fair. __But I need to let him know I love him no matter what, just as he's always done for me. _

_I just hope I won't be bringing him cheeseburgers in prison sometime in 2035. _


	59. Chapter 59

This is a very special chapter because I named it after Pumpkin Spice Dia, who inspired the entire story of TooSoon in the first place.

The original Pumpkin Spice Dia is not Mexican and may never have indulged in champurrado.  
The word Dia doesn't mean the same thing to her as it does here, but the ball dropped into my hand,  
and because I can't resist a pun, I had to run with it.

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 62 **

**Pumpkin Spice Dia De Los Muertos**

For the first time since... well, ever... Richard Castle did not throw a Halloween party. Well, not really. Not at home.

He and Kate laid in a stash of candy and carved a couple of Jack-o-lanterns, put one out on the fire escape and another on a little table by their front door. There were a few children in their apartment building, and the doorbell rang a few times, but they had too much candy at the end of the evening, and Kate bagged it up for delivery to the homeless shelter.

Esposito came by and watched Ghostbusters with them, but spent most of the evening texting Ameena. The Ryans were at a little party with the neighborhood mommies' group, and Lanie had a hot date with yet another mystery man and a kitty-cat costume.

Alexis didn't come. Rick had phoned her on Halloween afternoon, just to say hi, since they hadn't seen one another in a few weeks.

"If you don't have plans, would you like to come by and hand out candy with us? I'm making hot chocolate," he'd said.

Alexis had said, "Oh, I'd love to, but we're going to an all-night music jam on the lower East Side. David has a friend who's a music producer."

Castle had said, "Well, if it's a rave, keep an eye on your drink, and stay away from the punch."

"Dad, it's not a rave, but I will only drink beverages from sealed containers or mixed by reputable and trained bar-tending staff. Okay?"

"Okay. I love you, Pumpkin."

"Love you too, Dad."

"Look, Alexis?" He tried not to make his voice sound too desperate. "Hey, this is casual, but Saturday night, we're having a Day of the Dead fiesta for the harvest crew down at the farm. If you're not busy..."

"We'll try to make it," she said. "That sounds fun."

Maybe fun. But not promising. After he hung up, he sighed, and Kate smiled across at him. She didn't need to say it.

"I know," he said. "I should be proud she has her own life."

Kate just held out her arms for a hug. "That doesn't mean you have to be thrilled about it, either," she said gently. "I know it all goes by too fast."

* * *

•

Now that Rick and Kate lived at Beckett's Castle most weekends and whenever they could get away, they saw firsthand a lot more of the activities at Blueberry Hill Farm. As a wise woman once said, "Don't brand your cattle. Brand your customers." Between the high-profile restaurateurs, the subscription produce boxes, the occasional pick-your-own visitors, the farm stand, and the many visitors to the pumpkin patch and Christmas tree forest, the farm was doing great. In 2014, the apple harvest was huge, they sold all the cider they could squeeze, and the corn maze was immensely popular among families and teens from late July all the way up to the end of October when they got a light snowfall.

Matt and Chloe always made sure their employees – no matter how temporary - were treated well. They offered good pay, decent housing, reasonable hours and overtime pay during intense harvest seasons, safety training, good food, and there was a child care center set up that kept kids playing and reading and out of the field. (You can figure out who financed that.) And they made sure everyone was healthy. Dr. Locatelli came for a house call several times over the spring, summer, and early autumn to make sure all workers had up-to-date immunizations and basic health screenings. Everyone adored him, and although it was more than a bit out of his usual realm of expertise, he adored them right back.

Even with the extra expenditure, because the farm had such high quality output, it turned a reasonable profit. The whole thing paid off: Blueberry Hill Farm had a great reputation, spotless safety record, and the migrants came back year after year. They did a great job, and were happy to be there. But now, at the end of the East Coast harvest season, it was time for most of the migrant workers to move on.

Many of them were from Mexico or even further south. Rick was familiar with Dia de los Muertos, having lived in Southern California when his mother worked short-term on a TV series. So he decided to extend the paid day to November 2, and invited the workers to have their fiesta at the Farm. He hired an event planner (a very nice guy named Lance whom Gina had rejected for their wedding because he was "too.. you know. Over the top") to deal with acquiring the decorations, tables, chairs, tent, and all the serving wear. Day of the Dead is a family event, and it's very DIY. It would have been almost insulting to insist people sit down to eat catered food. They had plain sugar skulls for the children to decorate, they had Pane de Muertos. There were bartenders to handle margaritas, aguas frescas, beer, and wine, but the hot food and desserts were all made by people proud to show off family recipes and the occasional culinary experiment. All food and ingredients needed were provided in advance to those who wanted them to prepare things at home, and for those who needed to finish off their dishes on-site, Rick rented a portable outdoor kitchen setup.

The barn was cleaned up, a small stage installed, and a floor laid down for dancing. The area between the big house, Rick's storage barn, and the stable was decked out with tables, benches, a huge sheltered tent in case of inclement weather, and everything was festooned with flowers and lights and little LED candles (because hay). Kate spent much of the morning mixing up multiple batches of vividly-colored frosting and scooping it into little plastic bags, so that the guests could decorate their own sugar skulls by pricking a tiny hole in the corner and piping out thin lines of the bright icing. A group of teens filled a hundred small paper bags with a little sand, then placed candles inside. In the evening, the little traditional luminarias would light the entire driveway up to the farm. It was going to be beautiful.

* * *

•

Even though she was relegated to paperwork and the occasional interrogation, Kate had been busting her ass at the precinct, and both of them had been in and out of court for various cases ever since they'd returned from Ireland. So today, Rick didn't let Kate overdo it. In, fact when she got a little frayed-looking in the afternoon he took her back up to the house for "a little nap. And put your feet up."

We all know what happens when Rick and Kate 'take naps', and they had a glorious 'nap', right there on the couch in front of a lovely fire. Afterward, Kate fell asleep for real. She awoke with the soft, red throw draped over her, underneath a pile of puppies. Betsy, in Stealth Snuggle Mode, had arranged Little Blue, Azul, and Cielle about Kate's legs and squeezed herself in on the end, keeping Kate's feet warm. The puppies had been born on the warm bathroom floor on September 27, and they were nearly five weeks old. Little Blue looked like his eyes were going to stay that way. Azul and Cielle each had only one blue eye. They were all about the same size, staggering around on wobbly legs and oversized paws, occasionally tripping on their own ears, and they'd recently started scuffling and wrestling, running around the den room in circles. They weren't supposed to be on the furniture at all, but they were more-or-less house-trained, so Kate let it go. She sat up with a smile and stretched, moved the three puppies and a grumbling Betsy back into their den room, noting that Rick had changed their papers while she was asleep. She figured she'd have to deal with a lot of poo after the baby came. So it was all right with her that he was dealing with puppy poo now.

She then went upstairs to change for the party.

She took off whatever Rick hadn't already removed from her during 'naptime', and examined herself in the full-length mirror. Her reflection looked back at her with mixed feelings. Kate hadn't weighed this much since her "Kiev twenty-five". She'd spent the second semester of her Freshman year in Ukraine, and everyone there seemed to conspire to feed her because she was skinny, and cold just about all the time. Pierogis with sour cream and chives had been her downfall. Since she was so active, it was easy to lose that once she returned to New York, a place where you could go dancing until 4 a.m., or join a 24-hour gym that was actually open 24 hours. But gaining weight had made her feel insecure then, and insecure now.

Pregnancy was different, though. She'd tried to stick with really healthy food, but she was eating a lot, and along with a few inches around her waist, she'd gained a little weight everywhere – even her feet had gone up a half-size, and her breasts from an A cup to a C. She still looked perky, and having so much to play with drove Castle absolutely wild. But she still went through periods of near-exhaustion. She had always pushed herself too hard, and during the week, she still tended to let her workday get too long. Only now she couldn't get away with it anymore. Fortunately, her regular checkups showed that she was perfectly healthy, and Small was growing fast. The doctors kept going back and forth on her due date, because he was a little ahead of schedule. Now they were looking at the third week of January, which was Kate's least favorite time of year – her mother's funeral had been on the 23rd. One of the worst days of Kate's life. Yet it had led her to her career, to her greatest love, and now this new little life inside her.

She ran a hand over her belly. "I wish you'd been here to see this, Mom," she whispered. She dressed in a burgundy turtleneck, some bulky charcoal-gray leggings, an elastic-waisted brown skirt, boots, and put Castle's green plaid car coat over the whole thing. Then she hesitated and put a small, framed photo of Johanna in her pocket, and headed out to join up with Rick down at the farm.

The day was shaping up to be very cold, with a possibility of some snow overnight. She hoped the fiesta would still be fun. They'd invited 220 people to arrive at four. By the time she got there, at least 50 guests had already arrived, most of them adults putting up more decorations or setting out homemade food in the chafing dishes provided by the event planner.

* * *

**November 1, 3:30 p.m.**  
When she got to the barn, Chloe directed Kate to find Rick, who was at the stove in the outdoor temporary kitchen. A woman dodged past him with a huge pan of al pastor she'd been roasting in the oven. Already an improvised mariachi band (thankfully the tuba had not yet arrived) was playing in a corner, and at the craft tables, families were working on their sugar skulls and their altars. Lance had hired a battalion of face painters, and already many faces were decorated as friendly-looking, ornate skulls - some in the traditional black-and-white, some with an amazing range of colors, glitter, even metallic-looking paint.

Rick had eschewed paint because he was cooking and didn't want to steam it all off before the party. At this point, he was stirring an immense pot of something that smelled of cinnamon, chocolate, and possibly the warm, sweet breath of angel unicorns.

"What is that?" Kate sniffed. "Wow."

"My own invention: Champurrado Pumpkin Spice Dia De Los Muertos," he beamed. "Wanna try? Careful, it's hot."

He poured a splash out into a heavy white earthenware mug, and when he turned it toward her, she saw that it was painted with an ornate calavera – the skull symbol of Day of the Dead. She blew on the drink, then sipped. It was like Mexican hot chocolate, only a bit more complex, with a silky, creamy consistency. It wasn't as sweet as some she'd had, and there was a warm, earthy, aromatic note to it. She said, "Let me guess. Clove, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, fennel?"

"Close. Star anise." He grinned. "Plus a little extra chocolate. And a stealth ingredient: actual pumpkin puree."

Kate laughed and held out her mug to be filled. "You with your vegetables!"

He nodded and ladled out a serving for her. "So you like it."

"Like it?" she sipped at it, then licked a little off her upper lip. "It's heavenly."

"Good. Someone's grandma is probably going to get mad and insist I'm doing it wrong, but we'll probably go through a few batches tonight, so maybe we'll have a champurrado cook-off."

"Well, we'll just have to try all of them and see who wins."

A young man brought a tray of clean skull-mugs in different colors, and set them out on the counter by Rick. Rick offered him a sample. "Here, Raul, what do you think?

Raul grinned. "Not bad, but if my abuelita tried this, she'd throw you out of the house for putting ginger in it."

Rick looked around anxiously. "Is she here?"

"No, she's home in L.A. But I hear there are as many champurrado recipes as there are grandmothers, so you're in for it."

It turned out that, while there were very few grandmothers actually working the farm, nearly everyone brought a friend or a relative and enough food for a dozen people. So the party ended up with about 300 guests, and food for 500, and they went through six different variations of champurrado, one hand-mixed with the traditional wooden tool, the _molinillo_. People kept showing up with gallons of milk, secret containers of spices, shaved piloncillo, and disks of Mexican chocolate.

No use fighting. It was all delicious. Kate gained almost a pound that weekend, and Small added an extra layer to his _vernix __caseosa, _because he intended to be born ready for action.

* * *

•

After much badgering, Kate let Rick talk her into sitting down in a heated corner, pulling up her sweater, and letting one of the artists paint her little baby-bump tummy like a jack o' lantern. They had a photo booth set up, and Rick had the photographer take a picture of her sitting on a hay bale, with a round orange face grinning out from between his borrowed plaid jacket and the lowered waistband of her fuzzy leggings. She looked slightly irritated and embarrassed, but amused at the same time. With the soft, late-autumn light on her hair and face, and her hands carefully cradling her silly orange tummy, it t became one of his favorite pictures of her. They took another photo, this time with him sitting behind her, his chin on her shoulder, holding her hand, and that was the photo they used for the baby announcement a few months later. A framed copy of it also went up on the wall, next to the old snapshot of Martha pregnant with him and Michael, and of Meredith pregnant with Alexis.

The tone of the fiesta was different from any Halloween party Rick had ever attended. He was fascinated by the strange mix of excitement and a sort of calm reverence, one area of the tent full of music, another with laughter, another quiet reminiscence. He sat near the altar, observing as people brought up little skeleton effigies, flowers, and photos of their departed families and friends, talking to their photos, telling stories about children and siblings and parents and friends and ancestors who were still held close and dear, even if departed. Kate came to sit with him, watched a while, then pulled out Johanna's photo and set it amongst the others, one of hundreds on eighteen feet of table length. A shadow crossed her face. "So many goodbyes," she whispered.

Kate noticed an appreciative smile from a little girl who had lit an LED candle for her grandfather's photo. The child's face was painted like a pink skull with turquoise and orange flowers, and green vines. Her wide brown eyes peeped out from amongst golden flower petals.

"Is that your mommy?" The little girl pointed at Johanna's photo.

Kate nodded. "Yes. Her name was Johanna."

"She's very pretty. My grandfather's name was Pedro. Are you going to have a baby?"

Kate looked down at her belly. She kept forgetting she was big enough to show even through bulky clothes now. "Yes, I am." Rick arose from his chair on the side and put a gentle arm around her shoulders, and Kate amended, "We are."

The little girl's mother put a hand on her shoulder. "Blanca, don't ask such personal questions. You know better."

"It's okay," Kate said. "I like people who ask questions, as long as they're good ones."

Rick huffed a little and smiled next to her, and she gave him a little dig in the ribs. _People can change. _

Blanca said, "You should name your baby Pedro. It means 'Rock'. My grandfather was very strong. He used to throw me WAY high up in the air..." her voice squeaked as she raised her hands above her head "...and catch me."

"My grandfather used to do the same for me!" Kate said. "I'd forgotten that."

Blanca said, "Do you have a little girl?"

Rick smiled a little sadly. "She's all grown up now."

"You should have another one!" Blanca said. "It's no fun to be lonely."

"Blanca!"

Someone's auntie peered over from the other side. "She's right. Children need families."

Now Kate and Rick were both blushing. Rick said, "We'll see how we do with the first one, and let you know."

Blanca's mother rolled her eyes and whispered to Kate, "Don't let anyone pressure you. One can be _plenty_." She steered Blanca away. "Let's go see if anyone's brought sweet tamales."

Kate and Rick took time to look at the photos, and admire the little skeleton figurines. It was like a village: a skeleton band, skeletal businesses with barbers and street vendors and butchers and bakers and florists, skeletal pets and livestock, a fisherman with a bony little fish and an organ grinder with a tiny, bony little monkey. Kate reached out caressed the clay sculptures of a bride and groom.

"I love weddings," she smiled. "We should have another one. With a reception."

The words unspoken: _"Now that it's safe to do it without worrying about anyone getting killed."_

"We had the wedding on the beach," he said. "But it would've been nice to have everyone there. Let's do it."

"When?"

"Why don't we just leave the tent up and invite everyone next weekend?"

"It's Veteran's Day weekend, isn't it?"

"All the more reason." He kissed her hair. "It's not a big weekend for celebrations, and maybe we'll actually have everyone in town, even if it's short notice."

He spoke briefly with Matt, who consulted with Chloe and gave the okay. Then he texted Lance, the event planner. "You feel like throwing a wedding here next weekend? Leave the tent up?"

"$20k sound all right?"

"Sure. We'll need heaters too."

"No problem! Awesome!"

* * *

•

**11 p.m.**  
To Rick and Matt's surprise, a priest came down from the local diocese to lead a prayer in halting Spanish. At this point some children had already had their meltdowns and collapsed into sleeping bundles, and some were running around on their second wind, a little wild-eyed, hopped up on too much sugar and excitement. The mariachi bands took a break, and Kate might have fallen asleep for a while with her head on Rick's shoulder as he watched the impromptu mass in a language he barely understood.

At midnight, somewhere out in the cornfield, someone set off a few bottle rockets and Roman candles. Nothing caught fire. So that was good. The priest gave his last blessings and went home with a huge foil pan of food.

* * *

**•  
Sometime after midnight**

The older people rested their tired bodies, talking softly and laughing together with family and friends. The band started up again, and the young adults went back to dancing (okay, a few were having romantic issues that involved pouting, but such is youth).

After eating way too much food and growing weary of the mariachis' blare, Rick and Kate retreated to sit on a hay bale in a quiet corner, watching the dancing and the little girls making garlands out of marigold flowers (you see that in India, too, for a very different reason). Matt and Chloe joined up with them. Olivia's wolf suit had finally given up the ghost; she had been Iron Man for Halloween, and her new gold-and-red costume had seen some hard use for the last two days. She looked like the tiredest little superhero ever. Ella, dressed as a ladybug with a tiny pink skull painted on her cheek, was out cold in Matt's arms, drooling into his collar.

Chloe looked around at the fiesta and said, "I love this. We should have done it years ago."

Matt nodded. "It's a new one on me, but it's better than doing a haunted house. Not nearly as sticky."

They had tried doing a haunted house for a couple of years, but the corn syrup blood had gotten completely out of hand. And since spending that nightmarish morning at Murphy's house, Rick had actually Freecycled all his bloody plastic body parts and many of his gorier Halloween decorations. They'd lost their thrill.

Beckett was sipping just a little more "Pumpkin Spice Dia De los Muertos." She toasted him with her skull-shaped mug. "Castle, you've outdone yourself. This is even better than Halloween."

"I know, right?" he grinned. He sat with his legs astride her hay bale, and she leaned back into him, too cozy for words. Outside the night was frosty-cold, but here in the huge tent, with a crowd of happy people, it felt so warm and safe. Castle silently pointed her attention to a young mother and father, dancing with their little son, holding hands in a circle, laughing. She patted his knee. _"Us in three years!"_ she thought, and she knew he was thinking it too when he kissed her temple above her ear.

Chloe said, "It's hard to believe that by Tuesday, the last of the pumpkins and apples will have been shipped off, and most of these folks will be gone."

"Where do they go?" asked Kate.

"Anywhere they can find work. Florida, California, Arizona, some even go back to Mexico and have to risk coming back over the border. Every year we get new people, but every year we lose a few, and there's no way of knowing what becomes of them."

Kate felt some kind of tension run through Castle. "They're all legal, right?"

Matt said, "As far as we know. We're really careful, and when Immigration comes through their docs check out, but I imagine there are some pretty good forgers out there now."

"So when do they come back?'

"Oh, a little after President's Day Weekend. Some of them go up north to start the maple trees tapping, then circle back down."

She really felt it then, the jolt that went through him. His hands suddenly dug into his own thighs. He said, "Is there a maple syrup industry in New Hampshire?"

"Sure," Matt replied. "They're all through the northern states. We have a few up on the hill, but it's just for personal use. Takes 35 years for a tree to start producing..."

Kate swung around to look at Rick, and he scooted back on the bale to make room for her.

She squeezed his hand, hard, and they spoke at the same time. "Hollander's woods."

Matt and Chloe exchanged puzzled glances, alarmed by his anxious expression. "Never heard of it." Matt added, "What's this about?'

Rick hesitated, then it tumbled out. "I found a young woman's body when I was eleven, the winter before you and I met. But it disappeared, and there was no missing persons report to match her. There was no explanation. Thought I was imagining it."

"Jeez," said Matt. "I always kinda wondered where you got your ideas." He shivered.

Rick huffed. "I still wonder about the idea part!" He shook his head. "But as for the body, maybe she was a migrant worker. If she didn't show up for maple sugar season, people would have just written her off, right?"

Chloe nodded sadly. "The Mexican border's full of shallow graves. Or maybe folks thought your victim had found work elsewhere."

Castle pulled out his phone. Beckett put a gentle hand over his. "Rick. The rabbit hole can wait till morning, okay? It's almost 1 a.m."

Rick nodded, but his eyes were haunted. "I don't know whether I can make a difference anyway." He put his phone away.

Kate took his hands. "You can't bring her back, but maybe we can find a lead if we can figure out who went missing."

"Yeah," he said. The word was almost a sob. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Thanks."

Chloe said, "I'm gonna bring the girls in to bed. You guys here for the duration?"

Matt nodded. "Someone's gotta see the sun come up." He didn't normally pull all-nighters unless there was risk of frost or hail damage, but now he was sipping on coffee mixed with champurrado, and he'd make up for lost sleep the next day. He had set his own folks' photo on the altar among the others, along with a little offering of the things they liked best: a thimble of whiskey for his dad, tiny paper roses for his mom, a '57 Chevy Tonka truck for his brother, who'd died in Iraq. He was surprised to find that genuinely comforting. Chloe had put out pictures of her dad, and of her aunt Felicia, but no offerings. Maybe next year. Matt said, "I'll help you get the girls into the house. You guys okay here?"

Rick nodded. "Sure."

The mariachi band was playing a waltz. The tuba player had drunk his last beer and fallen asleep in a corner, so they were oompah-free, and the music took on a plaintive air, with lots of mentions of "_mi corazon"_. Kate said, "Dance with me?"

Rick nodded. They stepped onto the dance floor, and waltzed easily in a circle with the other dancers, yet in their own world. Kate was tired, but it felt so good to be in tune with this man, and when he smiled down at her, she knew he had set his troubles aside, focusing on the good. What a gift, to be able to do that. She said, "You constantly amaze me."

He looked almost startled, but flattered at the same time. "What?"

She hesitated, wondering if she should get so sentimental in public. "Most men of our generation don't waltz."

"They're missing out. How did you learn?"

"Oh, my dad taught me when I was little. Had me stand on his feet."

Rick said, "Mother made me take social dancing so I'd have something to do when she worked Dickens Faires. So I danced at Fezziwig's and taught fencing at the booth there. Got to fight the girls off with a stick. Literally."

Kate grinned. "I went to the one in San Francisco when I was at Stanford. 1998."

"Yeah, at the Cow Palace, right?" Rick said, "Mother played Mrs. Fezziwig one year. I liked hanging around with the old guys who played the chimney sweeps. They were utterly filthy and had some incredible BTS stories..."

The waltz finished up, and Matt – who had returned from the house - stepped up on stage. "Okay, folks, Los Hermanos del Rayo are gonna take a little break, have some coffee. They'll start up again at 2 a.m. Meantime, we have a nice little treat for ya... Catrina y Diego!"

A tall young man sauntered up on the stage with an accordion. He wore a black suit with a bolo tie, and his face was painted as a plain black-and-white calavera. A slim woman in a full Catrina costume joined him, her hair veiled in black and decked with red silk roses. She started up the strange, jagged, lilting strains of Camille Saint-Saens' masterpiece, _"Danse Macabre"_. The accordionist played along with her, the melody and harmony interweaving. A few people got up and waltzed, the shadows and light rendering their skeletal faces eerie as they spun on the dance floor.

Castle and Beckett, who's stood at the sidelines since they didn't know any Mexican folk dances and had no idea what to expect, joined in the dance again. "Alexis tried to learn this piece. She struggled with it for months. She used to trip on this next part, it's kind of notorious..."

The violinist flubbed it, just for a second, unable to manage the quick phrasing required by the piece.

Rick stopped and Kate bumped into him. He was staring at the violinist, her face unrecognizable in the white skull makeup. "_ALEXIS?_"

The violinist leaned toward him with a little bow, and a flourish of her instrument. She kept playing without skipping a beat, but bright blue eyes and a flashing smile revealed his daughter. Rick beamed with delight, and Kate nudged him back into the dance. He was the picture of joy. "I can't believe this," he said. "I had no idea she was coming!"

Kate grinned. "She wasn't sure they could make it tonight. David had a gig until 11. They've been practicing it for weeks. She wanted to play it for your Halloween party, then you cancelled it. She told me, 'Maybe next year.' " Kate was starting to feel just a little dizzy. "Ohh, can we slow down a little?"

"Sure." But he could see she was a bit wobbly, and they moved off to the side. Kate sat in a chair, and Rick stood beside her as she leaned against the warm, solid wall of his body. They watched and listened as Alexis and David played their piece.

When they finished, the room broke into applause (without the cheers, whistles, and catcalls reserved for the mariachi). Alexis and David stepped down and Rick rushed at his daughter, enveloping her in a hug. "Oh, Pumpkin, I'm so glad you came!"

David looked like he was coming in for a handshake, and Rick bypassed that to give him a hug as well. "That's the best accordion I've ever heard," Rick said. "I'm ashamed by my own prejudice. I love Danse Macabre. That was _great_."

David looked like he had been bracing himself for backhanded, sarcastic accordion comments. Alexis had warned him it might not go over so well. Under the skull makeup, his face brightened. "Thanks!"

Kate hugged the two of them as well, then let them go to pack their instruments away while Los Hermanos del Rayo took the stage. She said, "Hey, Rick. I'm sorry, I just kind of hit a wall. Need to sleep."

He nodded and kissed her. "I know. I'll get you to the house and hang out here with Matt."

Alexis and David were actually pretty exhausted, and after being pressed with cups of champurrado (Rick's version was long gone – this was Champurrado #5, with no anise but a shot of vanilla added to the mix) they offered to drive Kate back up to the Castle. This was a relief, since Kate hadn't given much thought to walking back up the hill as the first flakes of a snowstorm came down in the middle of the night, although she supposed she could always crash on Matt &amp; Chloe's couch with the farting dogs.

No. Much better to go back up to Beckett's Castle, rather than sending Alexis and David back to the city or putting them up, so very late, at a local hotel. They had a guest room set up, and if Rick had any problem with Alexis and David sharing it, he'd have to work through it. God knows, if a man can rise above a hatred of accordions, he can rise above anything.

He asked Matt, and Matt fetched a pad of paper and a pen from the house. Rick sat up all night, occasionally talking with Matt, helping people wipe up spills or wrap up food to take home. But he spent much of the time writing. First he wrote out a rough plan for the wedding next weekend, and composed a short, sweet invitation, which he would run by Kate in the morning then send with her approval

_Richard Castle Beckett_  
_and_  
_Katherine Houghton Castle Beckett_  
_request the pleasure of your company_  
_At a renewal of Our Wedding Vows_  
_Saturday, November 8, 11 a.m._  
_(Yes. This coming Saturday!)_  
_Luncheon reception to follow._  
_Dress for dancing._  
_Beckett's Castle_  
_Walden Hill, New York_

Then he spent an hour writing about the dead girl he'd found in the woods. It would be the last case that he would work with the Twelfth Precinct, which was only fitting. And he had every intention of keeping his 'case closed' rate with Kate at 100%. Whatever it took - he was gonna go out with a bang.


	60. Chapter 60

**Too Soon Chapter 60**  
**The Woods**

I can't give you an exact quote, but somewhere in The Two Towers, Tolkien observes that it's easy to tell a story where things go wrong and everyone's miserable, but very hard to tell a tale where everything feels good and everyone is happy. So this is a tough chapter that I'm writing under duress.

And, as usual, it surprised me.

Please remember: it's not a wedding that makes a happy ending.

* * *

•

Dawn stretched her pink-and-purple petticoats over the western edge of the Hudson Valley, where an inch of snow had dusted overnight. The farm huddled, waiting, under its lacy white blanket. Up on the hill, Kate Beckett slept in her castle, with a pile of puppies who had mysteriously migrated onto her bed sometime after 3 a.m., their mother curled at her back, snoring lightly. Down the hall, Alexis and David lay sated in one another's arms. She had fallen asleep, but he was used to being awake all night, and he lay stroking her flaming hair, smiling, as the sun peeped through the guest room window. He'd had a lot of fun helping her into the Catrina costume with the corset. They'd had a lot more fun getting her out of it.

* * *

**The Barn, 6 a.m.**

The last few revelers said quiet prayers at dawn, packed up whatever food they wanted to take home, and retrieved precious photos and mementos from the altar table. Rick and Matt slept through that, stretched out on hay bales. Matt had rolled over on his stomach and dreamed that he was back in Iraq, his face pressed into desert rock, unable to rise as black, feathered wings, sharp as knives circled overhead.

_Rick, on the other hand, stood at the pearly gates, naked as the day he was born, with old Petros at his side, looking at his murder board (which was odd since at that time, nobody was actively trying to kill him that he knew of). It had grown larger, expanding for miles up, and to either side, a solid yet flickering wall, a barrage of information too immense to absorb or take in all at one time, each memory compartmentalized - no, pigeonholed. Actual pigeons, with actual holes. No, tiny screens in their chests with little movies of things he'd seen and done, thoughts he'd had, ideas he'd kept and run with or discarded or lost. And when he tried to look at them, they scattered and flew about, wheeling in the deep-cobalt sky above him, turned into skeletal pigeons that perched on skeletal buildings, cooing and popping out hard, dry, round little pellets that rolled off the shoulders of equally skeletal statues, the eaves of shattered, windowless buildings against a sky that had grown gray and pitiless and cold. He shivered._

_Petros said, "You really should go somewhere warmer."_

_"Like Mexico?" said Rick._

_"Maybe just for the winter."_

_He was in the central plaza at some village in Mexico – he'd gone all over the place as a tourist over the years, and what he saw was a conglomeration of ten or twenty that had all been so similar: Church. Square. Fountain. Outdoor Market With Fruit. Maybe he'd followed the pigeons, he didn't know. No, pigeons don't migrate... suddenly the sky was full of monarch butterflies, millions of them, so many that he could hear the flapping of their wings like the distant rustle of bright-orange plastic tablecloths being bundled up and thrown away by a catering staff. There were a few people around, skating or playing games with balls and disks, a silent mime-bride stood on a milk crate and gave out daisies to passersby, some couples picnicked on the grass, a man sold balloons, a second sold pan de muerto, a third, cotton candy. Three girls played jump rope. They were all skeletons, life size, picked clean, brightly dressed, permanently smiling. An elderly couple shuffled by, both impeccably dressed: a tall, old man with glasses, and a tall, slim woman, with severe osteoporosis, and he knew it was himself and Kate, long and far in the future, walking along still holding hands, with a large skeletal dog sniffing along at their side. He reminded himself that Kate was gonna need to be getting more Vitamin D._

_He looked up at the angel statue on the fountain. She was also a skeleton, bedecked with flowers, and faces flitted by across her skull: Greta Schirrmacher, Puja Gashkouri, Kelly Nieman, many others, victims and perpetrators blurring together. He said, "How do I get here? How do I find her?"_

_A small child stood beside him, holding not a doll, just the head. A little skull, stained from rotting at the bottom of a compost heap. This child had a face, little Rosie O'Shaunessy with bright green eyes and thick brown, undyed hair, freckles and crooked teeth. She was trying to tug at his sleeve, but oh, wait, no sleeves. Awkward. She said, "Look for her face."_

_"Whose?"_

_"The girl in the woods. Look for her face." She pointed up to the faceless angel again, and features flitted across like a slot machine. Medium olive skin, dark brows, dark eyes, full lips, oval structure, there. Ding! A bell rang somewhere, or maybe it was someone accidentally smacking two wine glasses together as they went into the plastic tray to take back to the rental agency._

_"There." said Rosie. "The one with the three crosses and the blood on her face. Now, take those out. Make her all pretty."_

_Rick stared into a face he had never seen animated by life, the face of the murdered girl, not a teen but still too damn young. He felt sick, struck again as he had been many times, by the horror she must have faced as her life was ripped from her. He felt sick at himself, that he had not pursued it harder before, with all the resources available to him._

_"What the hell is wrong with me?" he seethed._

_Michael was standing next to him now, burnt around the edges, with two charred wings sticking out of his back at awkward angles as if someone had just shoved them in amongst his ribs. There was a thin film of brownish smog around him._

_"You weren't ready to see her," Michael sneered. "Even now, are you so totally useless you can't figure out how to find her?"_

_"She's dead," Rick said._

_"Gone, but not forgotten, maybe. But who would have her picture? What's the point when you'll never even see it?"_

_Rick's heart jumped. "On an altar. Someone out there is still missing her. Someone … maybe someone's just waiting for that phone call, that letter, for her to show up on their doorstep after all these years."_

_"There's not just one photo," Michael chuckled. "You know that, right? You know she's not the only girl with crosses carved on her face. Not the only missing girl with black hair and brown eyes. It's hopeless. I hope you enjoy this little can of worms."_

_Rick leaned his face against something that prickled like a hay bale, closed his eyes. He opened his eyes once, and found his cheek against the scaly, red, androgynous breast of Mephistopheles, studded with little black volcanoes of black ooze, like tar-exuding barnacles. Hot breath panted in his ear, and a long, wet tongue laced his jaw._

_Mephistopheles said, "You'd better remember this when you wake up. Don't waste my time."_

* * *

Rick sat up with a start. Betsy had sneaked out of the house somehow, come all the way down to the barn, and found him. She tended to get a bit annoyed when he was gone too long. And he knew that she'd been cooped up with the puppies more than made her happy. She put her paws up on the hay bale and shoved her shockingly-cold nose into his face. "Mroooof."

He blinked around, then closed his eyes again a moment, trying to hang onto his dream, and then he was really awake. He sat up and stretched, looking around. "At least I don't have a hangover," he told Betsy.

Although she didn't know why, she thought he seemed sort of proud of himself. She nudged his hand with her forehead and grinned at him. _"Good boy."_

Matt, who had a weakness for Margaritas, was not so fortunate. He had slid off his own hay bale altogether and lay crumpled on the floor in a sort of trough between two prickly yellow rows.

Rick always half-expected Betsy to answer when he asked rhetorical questions. "Betsy, where's Kate?"

Betsy gave him the Look Of _"Even If Betsy Is A Very Bad Girl Do You Still Love Me?"_

He said, "Some day I'm gonna figure out how you sneak out of the house, and then … well, you won't get to do that anymore." But he rumpled her ears, and stood to look around. The place was very nearly clean, all the usable food being packed up for the church soup kitchen, Lance's hired staff handling the packing and sweeping. Lance and his crew were clearing the tables and folding up chairs. The altar table was being stripped down, 300 tiny LED candles switched off to flicker another time, the real flowers to be composted and the fake to be reused next year. There were only a very few pictures and mementos left behind. Rick's heart skipped a beat, and he hurried toward the altar. Had he seen the girl there, from the corner of his eye? He wasn't sure. He hadn't looked closely at the photos. Many were small, blurry snapshots. But Kate's photo of Johanna was still there. He wrapped it carefully in his spare handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket.

Lance breezed by him. The only photos left on the table belonged to Matt and Chloe. "Let's set these safely aside," said Lance. "After this I'll go home and crash, then tonight we can go over what you and Kate want me to do for your little rush wedding." He patted his own, very flat and sculpted, tummy. "Make everybody legit in the eyes of the state."

"Oh, we're already married, we eloped a couple months ago after, uh, some stuff happened. We just want to make it up to our friends," Rick said. "No real pressure. More like a big party."

"Oooh! Well, in that case, maybe we won't have any major Bridezilla issues to deal with," Lance rolled his eyes in relief, then added hastily. "Not that your wife seems like the Bridezilla type."

"Not this one," Rick smiled. "You're lucky Gina didn't hire you. Dodged a bullet there."

"Haha, the fondant-covered, ulcer-inducing bullets I have eaten could pave the road to Hell," said Lance. "And yet I survive."

Rick set Matt's photos near him on his hay bale. Betsy, in full search-and-rescue mode, had decided that Matt was cold and needed someone warm to fall asleep on him. Rick grinned and shook his head. "Your puppies are gonna be so ticked-off when they find out you're living a double life," he said. "Working mother."

Then he and Lance took down the three 6' tables that had comprised the altar, and carried them out to the waiting truck.

Lance said quietly, "This was a nice event, Rick. We'll make your reception just as beautiful."

Rick nodded. "It's nice that Armistice day and Thanksgiving happen in the same month. Kind of peaceful."

Lance giggled. "Sort of an inverse 'Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.'"

"Put down your guns and say thank you? Doesn't have quite the same ring to it."

* * *

•

Everything was cleaned up by 7 a.m. "Ugh. Daylight savings time. Can I have my hour back now?" Rick grumbled. He and Betsy had walked uphill through the orchard, and he went quickly, because his jacket was just a little bit light for the frigid weather. The last of the leaves had fallen, leaving a few missed fruit on the branches. It hadn't been cold enough to freeze an apple through; he plucked the last Northern Spy and munched on it with great care, eating around the wormhole (welcome to the world of organic farming). Its cold, sweet astringency was just right after a night of rich food and way too much champurrado.

He unlocked the gate and the two of them passed through, then they continued on. Pink dawn sunlight sliced horizontally between the trees on the wooded road. The light snow wouldn't stick, but it sure did feel like winter would come early this year. Betsy smelled the cold little paws of a raccoon, and the freezing tootsies of a couple of skunks, and the last despair of a mouse before its tracks disappeared in the wake of an owl.

A couple of crows jabbered at them from one of the oak trees as they passed the bare brown twigs of the snowball bush. Rick and Betsy went around the back of the house and in through the back kitchen door to the mud room. Before taking off jacket and boots, Rick opened a bin to get supplies for the birds outside: peanuts for the crows, smaller seeds for the other birds.

Visually he checked to see if the automatic door switch was on, and it was. A useful thing, keeping hands free when going in and out with trash or groceries, eventually with a stroller. The switch allowed the big red button to work, and the big red button could be nudged with hip, knee, or foot (for the limber) to open the door, and then it would close behind you, locking after ninety seconds. This time he paused.

"Bets, can you open the door?"

She pressed the big red button with her paw, the door swung open, and he laughed. "You figured that all out on your own?"

She looked like she was laughing right back at him. Her tail wagged. _"Well, yeah. You think I'm an idiot?"_

"We are in _so_ much trouble," he sighed. He knew he should be worried. He knew he'd have to change the system. He said sternly, "You can't just have dogs opening doors whenever it takes their fancy." Her tail drooped a little and her head did the Anxious Tilt of "_But I Thought You'd Be Proud of Your Very Smart Girl." _

He was kind of delighted and stopped trying to hide it. "You are the coolest dog ever. Maybe I should teach you how to do the rhumba."

She did the Dance of _"Oh, yes, Betsy is the coolest dog ever!"_ around his knees as they went outside to feed the birds. The crows were already at the half-buried birdbath disk sticking out of the tree trunk. Even though he was technically early, they were scolding him, and he had to brush them aside to sweep away the old shells and pour the peanuts in. Amongst the shells were a few gifts: a button, a little girl's sparkly plastic hairclip, a scrap of foil gum wrapper. Rick said, "Ooh. Shiny!" and held them up for the crows to see, then placed them in his pocket to add to the collection they'd started bringing him a few days ago. "Thanks, guys." Then he filled the smaller feeders for the finches, enjoying the bright-red flash of cardinals. He'd never had a bird feeder before. "I feel like Snow White," he grinned. If you feed birds in Manhattan, all you get is a bunch of leprous-looking pigeon stalkers.

He took off his boots in the mudroom, and wiped Betsy's ears (they tended to collect stuff when she sniffed around in the world) and her feet. "Good girl," he said, then sniffed, and looked in the den where the puppies were sequestered, and sighed. Their basket was empty. Fortunately at five weeks, they were potty trained, and they had mastered the habit of leaving their little surprises on the blue pads he laid out fresh three times a day. But she liked to carry the pups upstairs to sleep on her old bed in Rick and Kate's room (and sometimes to sneak them onto Kate when she took a nap, because she got cold easily and Betsy did tend to worry). Mo had advised Rick to crate her at night, and usually he had, but ... those eyes.

They went upstairs. Kate was asleep with just her adorable nose peeping out from a fold in the duvet. Little Blue, Azul, and Cielle were tucked into the small of her back. Rick took a photo with his phone, so that he could later blackmail her with the cuteness of it all. He then took the two larger puppies in his arms. He whispered to Betsy, "Come on, let's go."

"_But Kate looks cold..."_

"Get Cielle, Bets. Come on."

He carried the two smaller puppies downstairs, and she followed him with Cielle dangling by her scruff from her mother's jaws. Another few days, and she'd be unable to carry them anymore. But she'd already started lessons on climbing the stairs, and they'd have it mastered by the end of the week.

By now all the puppies were awake. He gave them fresh puppy kibble with milk, and the same for Betsy. He sat reading a little while, waiting for everyone to process their breakfast. Then he changed the pads out, washed up, shut them into the den room, and went upstairs, with the sound of happy yipping and play-growling wafting behind him. He took a brief, warm shower, brushed his teeth, put some pajamas on, and crept into bed with Kate.

She was the essence of cozy softness, and oh, she smelled wonderful, like cinnamon, puppies, home, and pregnant Kate. He'd been feeling sort of sleepy, but suddenly a major part of his body was wide awake. He tucked in behind her, one arm perched along her side with his hand on the swell of her hip. But he was careful not to pull too close, he didn't want to waken her, oh, no, really he didn't, but, she was so very soft. But no. She needed her...

She rolled over and threw half her body over him, her thigh right over his hips. "Hey," she murmured. "Morning wood?"

He shifted a little. "It's okay. Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep." He kissed her hair.

"It's Sunday," she nuzzled into his collarbone, then licked into his ear, "I can't go back to sleep unless you do." She was wearing winter-weight silk pajamas. The softness of her inner thigh against his member had his entire endocrine system revving into turbo mode.

"Whoa, whoa, you keep doing that, I'll be up all morning."

"Trust me. I can be very efficient," she grinned. Then she made a face. "Gotta pee!" She jumped up and scampered to the bathroom.

"Isn't it a little early for scampering?" He was always amazed at how _fast_ she woke up.

"Got things to be. Husbands to do," she explained from the bathroom as she washed her hands. She came back to bed, her little tummy and breasts bobbing as she hurried to him, already unbuttoning her top. "You look like breakfast," she said.

A while later, the next thing she said was, "You like this, don't you."

"Oh... Beckett, it's so hard..."

"Mmhm?"

"For me to complete a sentence..."

"Mhm?"

"When your mouth..."

"Mmmmm...?'

"...is full..."

"Mmmmmmmmm."

Twenty-three minutes later they were sound asleep.

* * *

•

They got married again that Saturday. Out of the 200 original guests, 112 were able to make it. They said the same vows they'd said at their beach wedding in the Hamptons, because really, can you improve on perfection? Kate wore a simple white dress and no veil, her dad gave her away, and this time Judge Markway got to officiate instead of the Random Very Nice Representative of the Church Of Universal Knowledge and the State of New York that they'd gotten last minute, last time.

If there was a little extra security at this particular wedding, nobody batted an eye. But there were a lot of happy tears. Seeing Rick and Kate together, glowing, after they had been through so much that summer and fall... it was a precious thing.

Jackson Hunt was there, at Martha's side. He never even pulled out his laptop, the whole way through the afternoon.

Esposito sat with his date, Ameena Gashkouri, who had flown over from Ireland. They arrived a little late, straight from the airport, and she often glanced over at the formidable Lanie Parish, who had come to the wedding with her cousin again, just in case. About five minutes into the reception, Lanie just sashayed over to Ameena and Esposito and held the moment, looking Ameena coolly up and down. Then her smile went from hard to soft. "Javi, she's gorgeous." She extended a friendly handshake to Ameena and grinned. "Promise me you'll run him ragged."

The entire Gates family showed up, with Corinne still in a wheelchair but expected to make a full recovery from her head injury. The band played a wide mix of songs. At one point Ryan and Esposito got up and sang "Definition of Love", and the Gates' two kids sat in Corinne's lap while Victoria wheelied them around in a circle, all of them laughing hysterically.

If Lanie ended up getting roaring drunk and having sex with one of Rick's writing buddies in one of the (empty) horse stalls, you didn't hear it from me.

Perlmutter had declined; he and Arlene had received a mysterious gift of plane tickets to Japan, and he'd added the four-day Veteran's Day holiday onto his two weeks. He was actually going to take Arlene to the factory where she'd been made, and discuss some modifications. In person.

Mo, his wife Kamila, and Nuwwar came. It was Nuwwar's first Western-style wedding and she was a little disappointed that it was so sedate, but at least she got to wear a fairy costume. Unlike their previous planned wedding, this time Rick and Kate had three flower girls: Nuwwar, Ella and Olivia. Olivia actually wore a dress. The three girls flitted around the barn, their wire-and-glitter wings sparkling, scattering flower petals and blowing bubbles.

The dogs were all invited, and comported themselves admirably. Kamila Atta was pretty shy with people, but she loved dogs, and for much of the wedding and reception, since Rick and Kate seemed to be getting along fine, Betsy sat under the table between Kamila and Mo, giving Kamila the Lean _"Of It's Okay, Sweetie, Everyone's Gonna Love You."_ When the food came, she and Chloe struck up a conversation about their girls' respective obsessions with princesses and superheroes, and the rest of the evening went comfortably. Kamila and Mo even got up and danced a couple of times.

Alexis had given her speech (which had been only a little embarrassing) and was now a little tipsy out on the dance floor with David. David knew the foxtrot and guided her through it pretty well. Martha and Jackson were out there too, gliding along like the experts they were (yes: the foxtrot is an essential tool in the Secret Agent Arsenal of Social Skills).

After Rick and Kate had their first dance, they sat together quietly at their table, nibbling on small plates from a variety of harmonious cuisines.

Rick said, "Hey, I have a little present for you. Nothing big."

Kate, who'd had her head on his shoulder, sat up with a grin. "Really."

He pulled out a cheap little gold-foil gift box. It looked slightly smashed, as if it had traveled a way. "Mary Lafferty had the box on hand. When I stayed with them last time, I went for a walk..."

Kate's eyes went wide. "Stop right there. I have something for you, too." She opened her little white satin clutch purse. It wasn't exactly Kate, but it was very... bridal.

She pulled out a tiny organza drawstring gift bag. Rick could see a small, brown shape peeping through the sheer fabric.

He frowned, a little perplexed, and said, "Oh, my God. You're kidding."

She looked slightly hurt, "Remember that night, under the tree? I put it in my pocket."

His face brightened with the memory, and something else, pure excitement. "No, no, no, I love it. _I love it_. I love _you!_ Open the box."

Kate did, pulled aside a soft wad of cotton, and gasped. "Matched set?"

Two acorns, both from the same oak, an ocean away.

"I thought we could plant a tree where the birdbath blew up."

"We can plant both, side-by-side."

"Build a treehouse in ten years."

"This is so … cool!" Rick chortled. "I checked with an arborist. He said that as long as it's … as long as _they're_ decontaminated for soil pathogens, it's fine to plant them on our land. There's barely any old-growth left on the hill and quite a few trees are European imports anyway, so it's not compromising any... mphh."

Anyone who saw her plant that big kiss on him would have thought he'd given her more sapphires.

* * *

•

Meredith, who was in the Antilles making a movie about super-intelligent crocodiles from Atlantis, had to decline, so the whole thing went off without a hitch. The band was great, the food superb, the happy couple radiant, the guests finally got the long-postponed event they so richly deserved, and also, nothing caught fire.

Unless you count that thing Rick and Kate did once they'd holed up in their ensuite for the night. That was pretty damn hot. No, I'm not telling. Use your imagination.

•

* * *

A/N - there is actually a movement in Europe to clone from the most ancient trees that have survived centuries (and in some case milennia) of change. I think this is a cool idea on one level, but if you have a whole bunch of genetically-identical plants, sooner or later some opportunistic organism is gonna take them all down at the same time. I like acorns and seeds. Go Diversity! ;-)


	61. Chapter 61

_Note, I'm sorry this got so long. I really should have cut it in half but by the time I'd finished editing it I was just tuckered out. I hope you enjoy it. As usual, I deeply appreciate comments &amp; constructive criticism. And if you find a stray apostrophe... it's Muphry's Law in action. _

* * *

_Think of the last time you got a traffic ticket and had to go to court. Now multiply that by, like 47. And you have to go to court in another country. And it's murder instead of a ticket.  
_

_Stressed a little? _

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 58 –**

**The Letter of the Law**

* * *

**Tuesday, July 29, 2014, 12:45 pm  
Break room, 12th Precinct**

Rick stared down at his phone calendar, his face a grimace of misery. "I can't imagine a worse way to spend the entire month of August than stuck in depositions and trials."

Kate took a bite of her chicken salad with extra carrots and _absolutely no red peppers_ _whatsoever_, and continued scrolling through an online recipe site. "I know, court sucks at the best of times. But at least it's air conditioned. Hey, have you ever had rutabagas?"

"Rutabagas."

"Yeah, they're like a big yellow turnip."

"Can't say that I..."

"My mom got into a low-carb cooking phase for a while, she made these incredible mashed rutabagas..."

"I think that by the time you've tracked rutabagas down, I'll be safely out of the country."

"I'll make extra and freeze it. Really, it's just an excuse to eat butter..."

"Kate. My own true love, wife of my heart, burgeoning mother of my gestating rugrat, if you are craving rutabagas, none will survive until my return from the Auld Sod."

"You'll be gone four days, right?"

"I'll be _there_ four days. Which means I'll basically be _gone_ for six. Flying. All that."

Kate blinked like a startled deer. "That's almost a whole week."

"Yeah."

"But my bump just started showing." Now, the tears were, too. She blinked them back, looking around outside the break room window to ensure that none of her coworkers noticed the hormone fluctuations. "Oh, God, Castle, I wish I could go with you."

"Doctor says you are squarely in the No Fly Zone for another two weeks at least. Maybe longer."

"I know, but..."

They moved from the table to the old couch, and she sat with exaggerated care on his lap. It's not like her bump was that big. She didn't even have to wear maternity clothes, yet. But it had just sort of emerged, only a few days before, and she found it more comfortable to tuck her leggings down under her belly, with a knit mini-dress now acting as a long tee, and his purple striped dress shirt over the top of everything. In a few weeks it would look like a circus tent, and a few more weeks after that, the damn shirt wouldn't even button.

The pregnancy grew more real, terrifying, and wonderful daily. And he was going to be... gone. For a lot of it.

Her voice was resigned. "What's on your list?"

"Depositions with the County Wicklow police for your kidnapping. Depositions with the County Dublin police where I will have to simultaneously tell the truth and leave out the part about how Ameena bundled me out of the hotel at gunpoint."

"I still can't believe she thought she could pull it off."

He cupped Kate's cheek in his hand. "Said the woman who punched a senator in the face."

Kate blushed a little. "Ok, point taken. But I can't see why they don't just do it all via Skype."

He said, "I think it's because of Michael framing me, Kate. If there are too many holes..."

He didn't have the heart to finish the sentence. So she did.

"They might just arrest you then."

He nodded. "But I'll have my attorney with me. And he's been consulting with a group of defense attorneys in Ireland. I'll probably be fine." He looked as if he was planning to stick his hand into a barrel of snakes. "I'm glad there are no snakes in Ireland."

"What?"

"Never mind. Little lost metaphor with nothing to do."

"Just showing up proves you're no flight risk." She chuckled a little and stroked his hair. "I get the feeling that all things being equal, you'd never get on a plane again. You can be such a wuss when there's turbulence."

He was staring into the middle distance. "Flight risk." He blinked, and a little spark started up in his eye.

She knew that look. "What is it?"

"Tell me about the first time you flew."

"Uh, I was four? And we flew to Chicago for a reunion with my dad's side of the family. Why?"

"What do you remember?"

Her eyes crinkled in a smile. "I knocked over a drink on the bench in the loading area, and my mom wiped it up with my teddy bear because she didn't want to go looking for paper towels and miss our flight."

"Anything else?"

"Oh, the stew- flight attendant, she was so beautiful, back then they still had to wear little hats. I wanted to be one when I grew up."

"I can see you in a flight attendant uniform. Reaching up into the overhead baggage compartment..."

She had to shift her weight on his lap a little. "Speaking of baggage," Kate narrowed her eyes.

"Sorry," he said. He didn't look that sorry.

"Oh, no, don't apologize, feeling you squirm is the best in-flight entertainment I can possibly imagine."

"When you flew out to start your first term at Stanford, whom did you sit next to? Did you have a conversation?"

Her frown was thoughtful, puzzled. Adorable. "Well, yeah, it was... let me think, she was a software engineer, she was from France, she had just been visiting family in Provence then was going to start a new job. She was terrified of flying."

"And have you ever seen anyone famous in an airport? Or even semi-famous? Aside from me, of course."

"Yeah. I saw that guy who played Gold Leader in Star Lords standing in line once, and another time I saw Rapper MCSquared buying a box of See's Scotchmallows at the SFO candy stand."

"God, I love those things," Rick sighed. Kate made a mental note of that. They really did need to spend some non-detective time in California together. Preferably in the redwoods. Eating Scotchmallows.

She said, "They'd make amazing S'mores."

"They'd make amazing napalm in an emergency..." he wrote that down in his notebook. "So you notice sort-of-famous people in airports."

"Yeah, but I'd never ask for an autograph or anything, no matter how famous. That's so rude... like what if they were on their way to the bathroom?"

"I'm sure that even the marginally famous appreciate your self control." God knows it had happened to him. "And even though you usually have your nose buried in a book when you fly, even you talk to strangers on a plane."

"Yes, but what..."

"_I_ talk to strangers too."

"I'll say."

"I mean, I always have. Of course it's different if I'm flying with you or Alexis or with Black Pawn staff, but when I fly on my own, I talk with the people I sit next to. It's a great way to gather story ideas. Remember "Maisy Butters" from Stormfall?"

"The one with the big hair?"

"She was modeled after a sorority girl named Grace DuPree. She was from Tennessee. We talked to on the way from JFK to LAX by way of ATL." He thought back. "She'd been planning to marry her high school sweetheart, then she fell in love with her dorm mate's boyfriend. Cried on my shoulder most of the way. Gina and I had just split up so I was flying alone for the first time in months. It was _so_ _great _not to be talking about deadlines and shelf space."

"Ah."

"Kate. I didn't sleep with her. Although she did fall asleep and drool on my sleeve a little." He kissed her nose. "All those frames Michael tried to pin on me?"

"Yeah."

"I have alibis. It'll take some digging, but..."

Kate put her head on his shoulder, and his soft, sparse beard tickled her cheek. She ran a little furrow along the silver streak with her index finger. "Hey, Castle?"

"Yeah."

"I kind of like the grizzled look, but if you're gonna be dealing with the Irish authorities, and trying to get strangers to remember you from flights that happened over a decade ago, maybe you'll want to look a little bit more like your passport photo."

He chuckled and kissed her hair. "I dunno. The other day I was crossing 42nd street and some guy gave me a peace sign and said 'Hey, the Dude abides, Man.'"

She laughed. "What did you do?"

"I told him I was Jeff Bridges, and he said, "Whoa, Man, I thought you were a lot older," then he took a selfie with me."

That just got Kate laughing harder, then she said, "Dammit." She jumped up hastily. "I hate this having-to-pee thing...!"

* * *

•

Rick wasn't quite as memorable as he'd hoped, but there were enough people - over the eighteen return flights he'd taken into and out of Dublin – sharing cabs, helping people get their baggage down from the overhead compartment or off the carousel, offering limo space to Downtown Dublin on arriving flights, holding a toddler while a young mother changed her 3-month-old's diaper in her own lap, picking up on four flight attendants (only one of whom was married) and a pilot (two of them on the same flight? Jeez, Rick!), helping a grandma wrestle her luggage cart onto the shuttle train between Gatwick and Heathrow, having a long conversation with a fading rock star in first class, having a longer conversation with an up-and-coming band in the tail section, giving away signed books, signing a couple of arms (no tits), and singing "itsy-bitsy spider" to a four year old to hide his own abject terror of flight turbulence

Rick not only had an excellent memory, but also Black Pawn had forced him to keep meticulous records of his expenditures (mostly to force him to rein it in). He'd turned in every single receipt, and they'd had a series of interns scan them all over the years. To nobody's surprise, nearly all of those records had been obliterated in a computer crash a few years before.

But Black Pawn's accountants kept _everything_, including the five banker's boxes of receipts and itineraries from every trip Rick Castle had ever reported. It took a while to re-scan them and piece it all together, but they were able to recreate a complete record of his expenditures on every business trip he'd ever taken to Ireland. Oddly, he'd never taken one for pleasure. His experience with Declan had knocked that right out of him.

* * *

**Dublin Airport, Monday, August 4, 7:14 pm**

Castle and Esposito flew nonstop, first-class from JFK to DUB, and emerged from international baggage claim feeling relatively decent. Esposito flew with Rick to Dublin, not only to give his own testimony about what had happened in Murphy's house, but also to assist with the investigation into Rick's movements during the times when Michael had committed murders in an attempt to implicate Rick.

And also, Javi and Ameena sort of had a date. They had a lot to talk about. You can figure that out on your own.

They were greeted by Ameena, her hair in a wild cascade of curls, wearing full makeup and a drop-dead-gorgeous dress in a muted gold that made her skin glow. She was holding up an 8x11 hand-lettered, hot-pink sign with hearts and stickers all over it that said,

_**WELCOME JAVI!**_

_**and Rick!**_

It was hard to read because she'd used red marker, and it was liberally sprinkled with gold glitter. Javi rushed forward, bear-hugged her and they spent the next minute or so engrossed in a very sloppy but heartfelt reunion. They handed the sign off to Rick, who had enough experience with glitter to handle it with extreme care. He turned discreetly away and texted Beckett: _"Just landed. Gashkouri's here. Looks like true love."_

Beckett texted back, _"Awww. Wish I was there to see it." _

_"I'd rather be back home with you."_

_"Don't make me go cry in the bathroom again."_

_"Again? :-( _  
_Now I wanna go cry in the bathroom too."_

_"Buck up, buttercup. We'll be fine. Call when you get to Lafferty's." _

Javi said, "That sign's amazing!"

Ameena swept some glitter off his lip with her finger. "My cousin's daughters insisted I greet you properly."

Rick smiled at the sign. "Let me guess. Seven years old?"

"Five and seven. They're very artistic, aren't they?"

"It's adorable." Before Rick could stop him, Javi picked up the sign, opened up his suitcase, and popped the sign in, then zipped it shut again.

They started out toward the garage, Javi pulling his suitcase along, trailing a faint shower of sparkles. Ameena carried his laptop case over her shoulder. She said, "Sammy's circling with the van," She looked at Javi shyly, and took his free hand. "You could stay with us, you know."

He said, "Maybe that should wait till after I meet your dad." Then he gave her a solicitous grin. "Also, my hotel has an indoor hot tub."

"Ooh!"

Walking along behind them, Rick felt an odd pang. Life had changed so much for him in the past year, and he'd been so consumed that he barely noticed that things were changing for everyone else as well. He liked Ameena, and he could see how well they fit... but he felt bad for Lanie, even though she was already on the dating circuit again and acted like it was no big deal. And seeing these two so close now, with him on the outside looking in on a new relationship, it made him wonder how it had been to walk in Javi's shoes as Rick and Kate had danced around each other over the years. It couldn't have been easy.

He saw the car rental sign. "This is where we split off."

Ameena said, "You're sure you don't want to ride with us?"

"I'm staying with the Laffertys. Up at the farm?"

Javi smirked, "Yeah, have fun scraping cow pie off your Alfanis."

"I'm a bit tired of hotels," Rick said, almost apologetically. "They have one of those informal B&amp;B licenses."

"So you'll see us tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I'll come by the hotel around eight a.m."

"Eight, bro?" said Javi. "Really."

"Nine?" said Ameena. "That's working hours for normal people, Castle."

Right. For that, she'd be on the clock. Researching. Figuring out who had done what to whom, and when.

He grinned. "Forgot. I'm on Irish time now."

•

**Lafferty's Farm, 8:50 p.m., County Dublin, Ireland  
**

Rick rented a comfortable sedan, phoned the Laffertys to confirm, and drove out to the farm. Just past St. Brigid's Well, Neal Lafferty was down at the blue metal gate to meet him. He sat on a rusty metal folding chair, enjoying the summer evening, and when Rick's car approached, the two dogs barked and leaped around as the old man rose up to greet him. Rick wasn't actually that crazy about Jack Russell Terriers. They made Betsy's occasional spazzy moments look downright sedate. Lafferty had walked down with the dogs, and now it was time for a ride up, also with the dogs. They exploded into the back seat of the car, yapping in a frenzy, and Neal hefted himself into the passenger seat. It had, of course, rained that afternoon, just a light sprinkle, just enough that the steep road up to the farmhouse was slicked with mud. Some of that mud managed to find its way in with Rick's passengers, as well.

Up at the house, Rick pulled in next to a couple of unfamiliar cars, but thought nothing of it. He got his luggage out of the trunk and trundled up the walkway, while the dogs ran around barking in frantic circles. Neal took up the rear.

The Laffertys' front door opened wide, spilling out warm yellow light, and Mary greeted him with a hearty handshake. "Ah, do come in, the girls are so excited to see you!"

"Girls?" said Rick. He had to duck very slightly to get through the old wooden door, and when he straightened, felt the tips of his short hair brush against the low ceiling. He pasted on the easy, plastic smile. "Your daughters?"

"No, no, the book club! Your bedroom's this way, off the kitchen. Take a moment to drop off your things then meet us in the living room. Have you had your tea yet?"

"Book club," Rick mused. "Oh."

Castle took off his suit, changed into slightly-too-big (when did that happen? sometime post-bacon) jeans and a blue Henley that brought out his eyes, brushed his teeth, and ran a damp hand through his hair to get the airplane static out. He'd really been looking forward to a shower, but, oh, well. He emerged a few moments later to enthusiastic applause. Mary announced, "Richard Castle, may I present The Ladies of the South Dublin Mystery Book Club. Ladies, Richard Castle." He'd actually brought a few books along, he always did, because life is full of surprises, and here was one now. More like six surprises, a little crowd of bright-eyed women, bubbling with suppressed excitement and hard cider, already a bit tipsy and beside themselves with excitement. He didn't have enough for all of them, but he could do some kind of silly trivia contest and give out the three copies he'd brought, with promises to send more.

His phone buzzed and he grinned. "Just a moment, it's my wife." He stepped into the kitchen, turning his slightly-deafened ear toward the living room where the ladies chattered, pretty much all at the same time. He'd arranged for a cel phone relay tower to be installed on the hilltop above their house just the week before, so his signal was great. "Hey! How are you?"

"Good. I'm taking my 3:30 break at 3:45. Did you run into any six-foot-tall invisible rabbits on the road?"

He chuckled. Kate had had a lot of crazy dreams since she got pregnant. "No," he said. "No giant bunnies in top hats." The chatter in the next room went still.

"Are you at the Laffertys' yet?"

"Yeah, just got here. They're great. The room's nice, very cozy. Homey."

That was their code word for _"I'm too tall for the bed"_, a problem they both shared, since she was 5'9 and he was almost 6'2 when he stood up straight. He said, "I just happened to arrive on their book club night."

"Amazing coincidence!" Kate said, too brightly. She knew how he hated being ambushed. "How many?"

"I didn't bring enough books. There's eight, including Neal and Mary. Hold on a sec."

He peeked his head into the living room again. "Would you folks like to meet my wife, Kate? She's the model for Nikki Heat."

The room went nuts. Rick started out, "Of course, you know Mary, my lovely hostess, and Neal, my lovely host..." Neal, who looked rather like a turnip, with his round pink cheeks, guffawed heartily. "And why don't you introduce yourself, Ma'am?' He went around the room, presenting Kate on his phone to each book club member in turn, each one asking questions. "What do you like best about being a detective?" "How does it feel to be a writer's inspiration?" "Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?" "Your man here, does he snore?" "What do the crime shows get totally wrong?" "Are you a writer yourself?" And finally Mary's question, "Have you picked a name for the baby yet?"

Kate, as usual, managed to answer all of the questions without actually revealing much information. She really was a master at that. She said, "So, are you going to keep my poor sweetheart up all night writing about all of you?"

"Ah, this one's a hoot, Ricky!" cried old Eoife, who'd lost her home in the Bust and had to sell all her books off at a yard sale. She was maybe 4'5" and her hair was a peculiar shade of lavender.

Rick said, "Well, I do have some business tomorrow, so I should get to bed soon..."

"Ladies, that is his way of saying he intends to keep you up till midnight talking."

Rick laughed. "Beckett, I _never_."

"Castle, you _always_!" she retorted, and blew a kiss. "Look, I'm five hours behind you and my captain is going to make me go home at 5:30 today, so I need to do some actual work. Mrs. Lafferty, thanks for taking Rick in. Goodnight, Babe."

"Goodnight, Kate." His look in the skype window was plain: "We'll talk later."

After Kate got off the phone, Rick sat down, Mary gave him tea and a grilled cheese sandwich ("No, no ham, thank you, I'm a vegetarian.") and a slice of orange butter-cake with kiwi fruit and whipped cream. They did indeed all chat until midnight and well past it, talking not only about Rick's writing but also his travels, their own lives, and their creative pursuits. Some simply read, but others were writers or artists, knitted or crocheted or baked or created amazing gardens. Colleen was shopkeeper down at St. Brigid's well - her family had farmed the land since the 1700s and nearly all died off in the potato famine. It was Colleen who hand-lettered the lovely little signs with all the wrong apostrophes in all the wrong places. He found himself just itching to say something about the basic rules of punctuation, but it was pointless and would have ruined the moment. He was learning to shut up about stuff like that unless it was in a professional capacity. He did say, "The calligraphy on those signs is amazing. Every time I've ever tried to paint a sign I've just wound up smearing it with my pinkie."

Colleen blushed and simpered, "I'm told I have a gift."

* * *

Over the course of his short stay, the Laffertys kept him cheerfully distracted and well-fed ("No bacon? really? All right. How about some sausage. I have black pudding... Really? Just eggs and toast? You'll waste away. Ooh, how about fried mushrooms? There's a lad.") He'd slept two nights in their grown sons' bedroom (the boys had all moved away to start families on their own but the Laffertys were always ready for visits from the grandkids... even those who hadn't been conceived yet). The bunkbed mattresses were all at least as old as he was, and the room was only 9' by 11. If he stretched out in bed or on the floor (which he had to do several times to get kinks out of his neck and back) he could barely extend his arms over his head without running into furniture. The ceiling was only 6' in the bedrooms. It was like living in Hobbiton. He'd bashed his head on the lampshade twice, but he obviously hadn't been the first one to do so.

* * *

**Tuesday, August 5, 2014, ****4 pm: ****C****riminal Courts of Justice, ****Dublin, Ireland**

Gashkouri had a cousin whose best friend's brother worked for Air Eire, and by pulling a few strings, they managed to get flight manifests for every flight Rick had taken from Dublin or Shannon to England, New York, the European mainland, even once to Moscow, since 1990. Which wasn't strictly legal but it saved them from getting a court order. They'd get all that sorted out later.

In terms of the case, Esposito and Gashkouri made a report to the Dublin Gardai Chief of Homicide, a tall, surprisingly handsome man named Michael O'Leary. O'Leary looked Gashkouri up and down in a lazy, hungry way, like an overfed lion examining a baby giraffe. And he smirked at Esposito, whose entire suitcase had been dusted inside with the glitter from his sign as the paper rubbed against his clothing. He'd had all of his clothes washed, twice, and had taken three showers (two with Ameena) and there were still hints of sparkle in his curly hair and on his collarbone. It was maddening.

Esposito ignored all that now, though, keeping it professional. "Of the folks we were able to find who'd traveled with Richard Castle or interacted with him, it turns out that people tend to remember him, and the only one who didn't remember him favorably was a jealous stewardess who caught him flirting with another... well, anyway, that didn't work out too well. But everyone gave the same evidence: he'd had absolutely no time to kill women and dispose of their bodies at either Dublin Airport, Gatwick, or Heathrow. And almost all of them are willing to testify to that in court."

Gashkouri added, "A few of his seatmates have died since then, of course, so we can't double-check every single one, but they all passed on of natural causes."

O'Leary scowled down at the file, looking over Castle's itineraries, and signed affidavits from witnesses who had encountered him over the years in trains, planes, automobiles, hotels, and once in a hot air balloon. (Long story.) He said, "What, you mean Richard Castle had an alibi for every single murder he's implicated in?"

Esposito replied, "Yes, Sir."

O'Leary said. "Well, that was good plannin' on his part. Clever lad, to pull that off." He thumped the file. "No method? No motive? No opportunity? He's guilty as fuck. We'll have to bring him in. And alla those witnesses as well."

Esposito stared at him, baffled, then O'Leary burst out laughing. "Ah, you should see the look on yer face, can't believe you fell for that one."

Gashkouri and Espo exchanged a stricken glance, and he said, "Uh, heh. Yeah, that was... funny." He forced a chuckle.

O'Leary said, "Now get the hell out, I've a golf date with me daughter's orthodontist at four."

Gashkouri and Espo scuttled out of the office. Gashkouri whipped out her phone. "Hey, Rick. It's Ameena. Ah, O'Leary's a fuckhead..."

"Thinks he's so goddamn funny..." gritted Esposito as they left the building. Ameena switched to speaker phone, and she huddled close with him as they traveled down the sidewalk, for no particular reason other than that she liked the smell of Old Spice Aftershave. And Javier Esposito.

"...But he's not calling you in on the murders."

"Which is what you get for bein' famous..." said Esposito

"And also what you get for bein' a nice guy."

"No good deed goes unpunished," Rick said. "Because here I am in Ireland, lying on brown shag carpeting, staring up at a torn paper superhero lampshade, trying to work a knot the size of a walnut out of my spine."

•

He sighed, relieved, and tried to go into a bridge pose as Kate had shown him, pushing his hips up toward the ceiling then rolling back down through neck to ribs to hips, one vertebra at a time. It felt amazing, but it wasn't easy to do while talking, and he huffed a little. "So now all I have to do ... is give my deposition on what happened at Murphy's house, and I'll be - ugh- fine."

"You'd better be fine," Esposito said. "When's our court date?"

"Tomorrow." He settled his back into the floor with a sigh and extended in a long stretch. "I just can't think of a good reason why a judge or jury would believe any of it."

Esposito and Gashkouri had arrived at her car; she released the alarm with a beep and they got in. Espo switched his phone to speaker. "Hey, man. Took me some time, but I came around. You just keep doin' what you do."

Ameena added, "The blackmange decides the verdict, and the jury eats it warm."

Rick paused, puzzled. "I think you're breaking up."

"Oh, no, we're together, right, Javi?" Ameena looked at him anxiously.

"Yes, we're together, I guess, but what... what's the jury eating?'

"Blackmange."

Rick said, "Oh, pudding? Blancmange?"

Esposito scowled. "Blamma-what?"

"Yes!" said Ameena, frustrated. "Don't you speak English?"

"Do you mean 'the proof of the pudding's in the eating'?" said Rick.

"Oh. Yeh. Stupid phrase - aah get the FECK outta me way, ye'r slow as shite on a cold day," she snapped.

Rick twitched, startled. "What did I say?"

Esposito said, "She just pulled out into traffic."

"Might wanna look at the anger management there, 'Meena," said Rick.

"Ah, feck off." He could hear the smile in her voice. "You know your Da's been after me to work for him after this is all settled."

"Are you considering it?" said Rick. He noticed Javi was very quiet.

"Yeh, but my family moved to another country just for work, and look where it wound us up. I'd need more than that."

Rick said, "Well, you should at least come visit. That might help you make up your mind."

"What do ya think, Javier? Should I come visit New York and sit around sweltering and eating me feckin' pizza folded over? Will ya take me to a SaveMart so's I can buy a year's worth of goddamned canned beans at one go?"

"Hell yeah!" Javi said. "You need to give New York a test drive... whoa, watch it on your left, there, lady."

Ameena snorted. "Ha! 'Lady'!"

Rick said, "At least he didn't call you 'Bro'."

"No way. I call _you_ Bro. So, Castle, now all's you have to do is get through the preliminary hearing tomorrow, then you can go home till they call you back," Esposito said.

"What about you?"

"Well, I had a bunch of vacation days saved up. Gonna stay an extra day and help Ameena cross a few i's... dot a few t's..."

"I'll make you cross your eyes," she giggled.

"Hang up and drive. Get a room. Something!" Castle pleaded.

"All of the above, my friend," said Gashkouri. "Hang the feck up, Javi, we're goin' out for a beer."

•••

**Wednesday, August 6****, 2014, ****10 am: ****C****riminal Courts of Justice, ****Dublin, Ireland**

The County Dublin court clerk had made a special effort to get Richard Castle, Javier Esposito, Daniel Halloran, and Joseph Murphy into court for discreet preliminary hearings on the same day. Rick was so nervous he felt he was a hazard on the roads, so Mary Lafferty drove him into the city. Rick wore a basic navy blazer and black trousers into court, hoping to blend in like pretty much any businessman. Had it been London or anywhere in the U.S., the press would have been rabid, but here in Ireland, nobody said boo to him, although a few people gave him second or third glances. They got through security and were sent to Room 7. Mrs. Lafferty sat in the back row of the near-empty courtroom, knitting a very complicated sweater and offering encouraging smiles.

Rick's attorney, Don Pemberton, was already there, at a table up front before the witness stand.

The deposing attorney was named Walter Fitzgerald. He had a combover, wore a charcoal gray suit with a yellow tie, and he was an utter pill.

To Rick's astonishment, he was only interviewed for an hour, but it was excruciating. The elephant in the room was Tiffany Ross, who, along with Kayla and Elise, was still sequestered away for safety. Everyone had agreed to stick to the same story, since they had been operating somewhat outside of legal bounds: Tiffany Ross was never on Irish soil, had not been kept in the Murphy household, and she had not been exposed to Murphy, Halloran, or Krystow. Admitting that she had been there would complicate her life immensely, not to mention relations between the Irish and U.S. governments. It would hardly start a war, but nobody wanted the diplomatic headache of a covert team of law enforcement professionals and an un-quarantined dog, and a girl whisked discreetly from one country to another and back again without so much as a stamp on anybody's passport. And Irish intelligence had no desire to admit they'd needed help solving a case that they'd actually resisted investigating for years, despite the earnest efforts of their own agent Ameena Gashkouri.

Fitzgerald asked only a few questions, but looked as if he expected every answer to be an egregious lie. "Mr. Castle, did you see Mr. Murphy physically harm anyone?"

"He was... he was cutting up human meat and trying to pass it off as bacon."

"How did you know it was human meat?"

"It – I've seen a lot of bodies, in my research, and at autopsies. Working with my wife at the coroner's office. It wasn't bacon."

"Ah. Did you eat any?"

"NO!" He shuddered and collected himself. "No, sir. I didn't eat anything in that house." He looked a little gray, and a bailiff handed him a cup of water.

"And didn't Mr. Murphy innocently invite you into his home as a guest?"

"He lured me."

"How?"

"I was looking for my bike."

_Reel them in. _

"Please elaborate."

"My late brother Michael – he stole my bicycle a long time ago, when I was visiting Dublin. They used it as a visual clue. A test, if you will." Rick told an abbreviated version about Michael, the bike, and how it wound up at Murphy's house. Mary Lafferty set down her knitting, took out a packet of butter cookies and a thermos of tea, and sat enjoying the show in a benevolent way while Rick laid it all out. He could smell the cookies. It made him weirdly glad that she was there.

He talked about Greta Schirrmacher Krystow and her cadaverous collection, but left out specific information pertaining to Tiffany, hoping it wouldn't be an issue.

"Did you see Daniel Halloran physically harm anyone?"

"He attacked me, and Greta drugged me. Later, he attacked me and my wife."

"Mr. Halloran's version is that you pretended to assault your wife and invited him to join in, and then she attacked him. You laid a trap for him. Is that correct?"

"He was planning to..." _kill Tiffany_. He couldn't say that. "He was planning to kill us and frame his own father for our murder."

"How did you know that?"

"I heard him and Murphy discussing it."

"What did they say?"

Castle closed his eyes for a moment, then recounted their conversation word-for-word. The attorney snickered. "Mr. Castle, we're all aware that you're a consummate ... uh... storyteller."

"That doesn't make it any less true," Castle shot back.

Back of the room, Mary Lafferty called out, "I've been reading this lad's books for twenty years and caught every single interview I could on the telly. If you can't tell the difference between the truth and a story, what kind of Irishman are ya, Fitzgerald?"

Judge Coogan, who was in his forties and obviously loved a Guinness or five after work, tapped his gavel and gave Mrs. Lafferty a withering glare. "Order." He spoke to the court reporter. "Strike that from the record. Please continue, Mr. Castle."

"The house was full of corpses, all right? I had this funny feeling we might be in a little bit of danger."

"Why, if he thought you were on his side, would you be in danger from him?"

"Because I wasn't actually _on_ his side!" Rick roared in frustration.

Judge Coogan banged his gavel. "Order."

"And why, exactly, were you in Ireland in the first place?"

"Michael – 3XK – had an accomplice. His wife – she was Irish. Her birth name was Rose O'Shaunessy. She was captured and institutionalized in New York. I was given the opportunity to interview her before she died recently."

"Died how?"

Rick hesitated. "Food poisoning. Botulism. Likely murder. Anyway, she indicated that a kidnapped girl was being held hostage. And later, that my bike was a sort of.. I don't know. Signpost."

"And why did you not involve the Gardai?"

"We... It was one of those "don't tell the police or she dies" things, and we took it upon ourselves to come to Ireland and look for her. We had a bloodhound with us."

"A bloodhound."

"Yes, a search-and-rescue dog named Betsy. I think there might have been help from higher up, people pulling strings as a favor, but I don't know exactly who arranged what."

Fitzgerald jumped on that. "And the dog wasn't quarantined? You do know that's illegal."

"She's a damn good dog!" said Mrs. Lafferty.

The judged sighed and tapped his gavel. "Out."

The bailiff very kindly helped her gather her things.

Rick waved a grateful smile to Mrs. Lafferty. She mimed incomprehensibly, pointing in the general direction of outside. He smiled and waved.

He said, "Yes. We took private aircraft and bought cars instead of renting them, so we didn't have to go through customs or anything. It really was sort of a miracle."

Mary Lafferty waved back as the heavy door sighed closed behind her.

Rick added, "It turned out that one of the members of my team was being... well, eventually Irish Intelligence very nicely inquired what we were doing, so we came clean and told them. They gave us a hand."

"And did you find the girl?"

Rick hesitated. This would come down to perjury if he didn't handle it right. He turned to Pemberton. "Does Ireland have a fifth amendment?"

"Yes. Something like it."

Rick looked at the judge. "Can I just say that she's safe in New York now, and that bringing her to Ireland to testify would be deleterious to her safety and emotional health after a traumatic experience?"

Coogan nodded. "The court will accept this testimony, with the understanding that you are not the person to make that judgment."

Rick said, "I apologize, your honor, I wasn't concerned with legalities. I just wanted to get her home safe." His voice shook.

Fitzgerald sneered, "I don't suppose you minded getting your hands on her, first."

Rick went pale. Pemberton objected. "Leading the witness."

The judge sat up and gave Castle a sharp look. "Overruled."

"Daniel Halloran testified that he found you groping the young woman... what was the name he gave? Tiffany Ross?" Castle stopped. Stared.

"You know about Tiffany?"

"Of course we do. Daniel Halloran's a moron. Said he found you in the shower with a girl they'd been keeping for 3XK."

"He didn't find me in the shower. We were pretending. Ran the water to make noise because I knew they had a cam in her room."

"And where is Ms. Ross now?"

Castle looked at his attorney, who gave him the go-ahead. "She's in witness protection until we're sure those bastards are locked up for good."

Fitzgerald sneered. "Realllllyyyyy. Because Daniel Halloran and Joseph Murphy have both testified that you and your brother Michael intended to kill all of them, including the girl. What did he call it? Last man standing."

"Yes, really. Look, go ahead and call Victoria Gates at NYPD's Twelfth Precinct. She's captain of the homicide division. She can verify that we got Tiffany out of there and back to safety."

"So you never laid a hand on her."

Castle hesitated. "I never abused her or molested her." His eyes started to tear up. "She's just a kid. Barely my daughter's age."

"But you touched her?"

Castle closed his eyes, his jaw clenched. He visibly forced himself to respond in a calm voice. "I did. I shoved her against the wall. We were on camera. I had to make it look real."

"Why?"

"Again. It had to look like I planned to join in killing her. They didn't know 3XK was already dead. I was careful not to hurt her."

"How did he die? This 3XK?"

"He ran my car off the road. We fought. I used a safety flare against him. I knocked him down, he didn't get up, the flare sparked some weeds, and then the car caught fire when Rose Shaunessy punctured the gas tank with a .22 caliber. That's the short version, the State of New York has the whole story on file."

"So you murdered your brother in a rage."

"Objection, your honor!"

"Sustained."

"It was self defense. He had a rope..." Rick felt a weird lump in his throat and had to stop a moment. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The judge said, "Mr. Castle?"

Rick took a long breath through his nose, and blew it out of his mouth. He said, "I can never tell when it's gonna just hit me, you know?"

"Do you need a break?"

"No. No, I'm all right."

Fitzgerald started in again. "How long had you known that serial killers ran in your family?"

"I suspected after... after he framed me for murder. I was cleared, but he got away. I wasn't really certain until the day he ran me off the road."

"And how many people have you killed, Mr. Castle?"

_"NOW I need a break," _Rick thought. He spoke through gritted teeth. The court reporter frowned in concentration, listening to his quiet voice. "Only the one."

"Louder, please?" said Fitzgerald. "So the only person you've ever killed is 3XK. Your brother."

"Yes."

"How many have you fantasized about killing?"

"I was a mystery writer. It was my job."

"Was?"

"I quit." Castle sighed. "I'll probably never write again."

"All right. So you'll never think about killing anyone, ever again," Fitzgerald leered.

Pemberton raised a weary hand. "Objection, your honor, baiting the witness."

"Sustained. Mr. Fitzgerald, please save the grandstanding for the actual trial."

Fitzgerald scowled momentarily, then his shark-like smile returned. "Now, what happened between you and Tiffany in the basement, when you had her all alone to yourself? The whole truth, Mr. Castle."

"Halloran had hung her up on some kind of shackle. It was like a butcher's shop. I took her down. He was going to slaughter her like a calf. He drugged her, he... there was a used condom in the trash, did you find that?"

"Yes. We found two. One with a trace of your DNA on it."

"And your forensics people tested the contents?"

The attorney looked at his notes quizzically. "Can you confirm what was in that condom?

"Liquid soap."

"Why on earth..."

"Halloran gave me the condom. I needed to make it look used. In case he came back in."

"Convenient."

"Objection."

"Sustained."

Fitzgerald approached Castle, pushing his red, pitted nose in close. "Mind you, we _will_ be contacting Captain Gates, and we _will_ get testimony from Tiffany Ross. And if there is so much of an _inkling_, that you harmed her in _any_ way, you're goin' to prison with Halloran and Murphy, and we'll see how long it takes before someone makes daisy chains outta your innards."

This man was nothing compared to Kate Beckett. Castle sat back. "Is that all you have?" He looked so relieved that the judge and hostile attorney glanced at one another in surprise. "The only thing I was worried about was that we smuggled Tiffany... "

His attorney spoke up. "Your honor, my client should stop talking at this point."

Rick said, "No, really..."

The judge said, "Perhaps the court does not need to know how you got into the country, and whether you got Tiffany out of it."

"Oh."

"Dismissed. Who's next on the docket?"

"Javier Esposito."

They pronounced it "Jay-vee-aire Esspo-Zyto". He wasn't there yet.

As Castle was let out of the hearing room, Esposito came running into the building; a pocket of gold glitter had nestled in his tie, and burst open all over his shirt on the way to court. He looked like he'd been auditioning at a strip club. "Oh, man, I am so late!" he told the guards at the door, and one of them smirked, "Well, at least you had a good time on the way. Room 7."

He passed Rick as he dodged into the courtroom. "I'd ask how it went..."

"So would I, but it seems pretty clear to me," Rick smirked. "Hurry up, the judge is in a bit of a mood. Don't let Fitzgerald rattle you."

Esposito grinned and flung his arms wide. "Am I the rattlin' kind?"

"Only if you count snakes."

On his way out, he glanced into a side transept of the circular, modern courthouse. There he spied Dan Halloran and Joseph Murphy sitting in a secured area. Murphy was in a wheelchair, staring vacantly at the floor, humming to himself. He was wearing bulky white socks, and red rubber clogs with little holes in them. His thick fingers moved slightly on his thighs, practicing an imaginary accordion. He looked so old, so harmless. Rick supposed he'd play the insanity card. Fitzgerald had stepped out of the courtroom and was talking to them in a low voice. He glanced up as Rick walked by, but immediately went back to Halloran, trying to distract him.

Halloran glared at Rick out of one eye that wasn't swollen shut. Dan was pale and unshaven, and his face, which had once become handsome under Dr. Nieman's plastic ministrationsn, had been rearranged far worse than Castle's damage in their two brief fights. The augmented tip of Little Patty's chin seemed to have literally dislocated and lodged in a pocket of flesh underneath his jaw. Rick wondered if Dan knew that Kelly was dead. He decided not to mention it, but felt grimly comforted that there was no fixing a face like that in prison.

Halloran, who was shackled hand and foot, snarled, "Ah. There goes Yer Man now. Pleased with Himself." His voice, nasal from the severely broken nose with which Rick had graced him, echoed in the cold glass parabola of the room. A few passing people glanced up and hurried on their way. Their guard turned cold eyes on Halloran, and then on Rick.

Rick paused at that, just watching them (from a safe distance) and saying nothing.

Murphy, and Fitzgerald, both said, "Quiet."

Fitzgerald said, "Mr. Castle, are you trying to intimidate my clients?"

"No need. They're cowards enough already."

Halloran hawked and spat on the shiny floor. "They'll be haulin' you in next, Ricky!" he cried.

Rick just couldn't help it. "For what? Trying to recover a stolen bicycle?"

He turned on his heel and marched out with a smirk on his face.

"Ah, feck you!" Murphy's voice followed him out into the vestibule, and it was a grand thing to walk out of those doors and realize he might never hear another word from either of them, ever again.

* * *

Mary Lafferty was watching for him from the tea room across the road. Observing his tense demeanor, she brought him a nice cuppa, to go, and meeting him on the sidewalk, she said, "What you need is a diversion."

"Diversion?"

"Yeh. Let's go up to the Guinness Museum, take a tour and have a pint."

"I'm not drinking now, it's just a little deal I have with Kate."

"Ah. Maybe a little shopping on Grafton so's you can get your missus a souvenir?"

"Not Grafton Street," Rick said, and shivered, even though it was only August. "But is the Book of Kells still in the Trinity library?"

"I haven't been there in ages!" she grinned, taking his arm. "Just the thing!"

An hour later he was standing in Trinity College's Long Room Library, holding his phone up to his face.

A guard tapped him on the shoulder. "Make sure you don't use a flash."

"I wouldn't dream of it!" Rick whispered. "Selfie."

"All right then. Discreetly, now."

Beckett got a video by email a few minutes later. There was Castle's beaming face, with endless oak bookshelves stretching away behind him. "Kate," he whispered. "I'm in the library where they keep the Book of Kells on display. You need to come smell this place with me. It is awesome!"

**Thursday, August 7, St. Philomena's Hospital Recovery Ward**

John Halloran was still in hospital. Rick came in and visited the old man, with his permission. Ameena Gashkouri accompanied him, and together they sat by Halloran's bedside, and Gashkouri took notes on their conversation.

Rick told Halloran an abbreviated story of Rose O'Shaunessy and Micheal McGowran, and Ameena added in what she'd pieced together from Dan's story, Halloran sighed. "So the two of them killed me wife, and they're dead, then."

"Yes," Rick said.

"Saves me the trouble."

Rick tried not to look the man up and down. Halloran hadn't yet been fitted with an artificial foot, and there was so much spinal damage, he was likely to need a wheelchair for the rest of his life. It didn't look like John Halloran would ever be able to lift a finger against anyone again.

Rick said, "Forgive me if I don't feel any regret about that." He was still pretty pissed that the old drunk had kidnapped Kate, although a part of him understood the reasoning.

Halloran looked at Gashkouri. "So you found your mother's body."

"Yeh. No thanks to you," she snapped.

"Like I said, they kept me in the dark."

"If you'd come forward earlier, innocent people wouldn't be dead now."

"If I'd come forward earlier, likely you'd be one of them," said Halloran. "So shut it." His bloodshot gaze slid to Castle. "You've talked to my boy Danny?"

"Not exactly. He did speak to me yesterday. He has been very eager to tell his story to anyone who will listen."

"He's got a shite lawyer then."

Ameena tilted her head. "They're hoping for an insanity judgment. Maybe not so shite."

"Maybe not," said Halloran heavily. "Well, if you see him again, give him my regards. Tell him I did the best I could, no matter what he thinks of me."

Rick and Ameena got up to leave. Ameena said, "Yeh. I'll tell him."

Rick said nothing, but the look of disgust on his face spoke volumes.

Esposito was waiting for them in the hallway outside the small hospital room, leaning against the wall, picking glitter out of the seams of his sleeve cuffs. "Hey, bro, how did it go?"

Rick shook his head, his lips pursed and white with anger. "You know, Javi, your dad may not have cared, and my dad wasn't even on the radar until last year, but it beats the crap out of a father like that."

Espo nodded. "I hear ya."

•

**JFK Airport, Saturday, August 9, 5 pm**

Kate picked Castle up at the international baggage carousel, hurrying into his arms with a whoop of joy. She felt him tense to pick her up, but they both paused and said, "Baby." They rocked together, and stared hard into one another's faces, and kissed like teenagers. He retrieved his one suitcase, then they took the town car back to the temporary 2-bedroom apartment they'd rented in Soho for only $5,200 a month (what a steal!). They had put the loft on the market July 27 for $10,500,000 - midrange for a full-floor, split-level, 4-bedroom, 3-bath Broome Street loft with skylight and roof access. The bidding war brought the sell price up to $17,135,000.01 - the penny amused Rick, and it was sold to an oil-prospecting geologist who had three kids and played the ukulele in a dad band. Rick wasn't entirely certain how much money he and Kate would wind up with in the long run, but he wasn't too concerned. Beckett's Castle was paid for, and he still had the place at the Hamptons to unload.

Rick and Kate had stayed in touch throughout his trip. So they didn't really need to do that on the drive home. Kate was rather quiet, and Rick was tired, so he didn't notice. Betsy wasn't there to greet them - she'd stayed the week at the farm with Matt and Chloe's family - so the apartment felt calm and peaceful. Even romantic, although slightly cluttered with a few boxes of things whose fates they hadn't yet decided.

While he showered the plane flight off, Kate set out a quick dinner of salad and delivered pizza (mozzarella, olives, and kale all over, mushrooms on his side and anchovies on hers.) The pizza place was just around the corner, and it was fresh out of the oven, the cheese still molten.

She'd gotten some fresh-squeezed merlot grape juice from a specialty market. She opened it, took a sip, smiled, and poured some into stemmed wine glasses. It was dark-red, earthy, and surprisingly dry. He emerged from the shower freshly shaven and smiling, wearing nothing but a pair of blue jersey workout shorts. That was just fine by Kate. It was a warm evening, and she'd stripped down to a swingy little summer dress and bronze sandals that brought out the tan on her legs.

She said, "Want to eat on the fire escape?"

"Sure!" They went out the window and sat on outdoor cushions she'd bought for the fire escape. Rick went out first, and she handed him their dinner on a tray, then clambered out to join him. They sat looking out over the relatively clean, tree-lined mixed-use street.

She took a bite of her pizza then blew cool air rapidly over her tongue. "Watch out," she warned. "Pizza burn."

Rick inhaled the warm, moist air of a Manhattan evening. "I haven't done this in years," he smiled.

"You eat pizza all the time."

"Not on a fire escape." They'd eaten meals on the roof at 450 Broome, quite a few times. It had been a good deal more comfortable. But this was soothing, small-scale, somehow more intimate even though it was less private. The fire escape across the street was festooned with white fairy lights that turned potted geraniums into puddles of bright pink in the dark, angular tangle of stairs and railings.

She took his hand. "I love New York. When it's not freezing. Or too hot to sleep. Or up to its ass in hurricane. Or steeped in garbage."

"I sort of miss the days when I was a kid, and we could go down to the waterfront to watch the river burning."

Kate laughed. "Really."

"Sure. If you wanted a fish dinner, you could just grab a net, scoop, and come up with enough poached herring to feed a family of seven."

She swatted him with a giggle, then her expression softened at his thoughtful look.

"Do you miss the loft?" she said softly.

"Didn't move in there till after they cleaned the river up."

"You know what I mean."

He tilted his head. "Yeah. I do." He shifted and put his arm out, she came close and leaned into him. "But I love this. Just you and me, just for now, starting fresh as well as anyone could under the circumstances. I know Alexis is safe at school" (he'd hired a female bodyguard after he got back from rescuing Tiffany, and they had an off-campus apartment with a couple of carefully-vetted roommates) "and I know Mother's as safe as she'll ever be with Jackson." He blew on his pizza, knowing he'd probably get a burn anyway. "So this is our honeymoon, Kate. Our real honeymoon, not on some tropical island. Just here, building our new life together."

She didn't answer, just gave a little start, smiled, and rubbed her tummy. "Small likes pizza."

"I like Small," he grinned, and wiped his face with a napkin before he leaned down to nuzzle at her still-mostly-flat tummy with his nose. He looked around and slipped a hand up underneath her dress, to span her abdomen. "I wish I could feel him kick."

"Oh, you will. Sooner rather than later, I think." She winced. "Maybe we should call him Joey. Because he's acting like a baby kangaroo."

"Bugs. Like a bunny." he wiggled his nose and started nibbling around her ear. "What's up..."

"Rick."

Oh, he knew that tone of voice. He sat back, looking at her intently. "What is it?"

"Look, uh, something kind of weird happened yesterday. I didn't want to discuss it online."

His eyes darted around, the alley suddenly feeling shadowy, threatening. "Should we go inside? Should I call..."

"No, no, see, I didn't want to worry you. Nothing like that. I just... I got called down. You know that saying, "The more paneling in the room, the more trouble you're in"?

"Yeah."

"Well, I got called in to a meeting, and they raked me over the coals."

"About what?'

"Everything. My behavior as a detective, my bending the rules, my work with you, my reputation..."

"Reputation?" he said darkly. "Seriously?"

"Well, apparently they though I was a little bit slutty with you."

"Wait. Who exactly is this 'they'?"

"I'm getting to that. So they are just utter... assholes. And I get up to leave, and then I decide, _'No, I am not gonna just lie down and let them make me squirm.'_"And I go back to tell them about my take on the whole thing, about how my focus is getting justice for victims' families."

Rick beamed. More relaxed, he took a bite of pizza. Forgive him if he spoke with his mouth full a little. "So who were dey?"

"Finish chewing."

"Okay."

She handed his juice to him.

"This is really good." He took a sip and set the glass down.

She said, "It was an exploratory committee."

"For what?"

"They want me to consider running for senate."

He was quiet a long moment, remembering what Simon Doyle had said about their future together: that he would wind a Pulitzer, and Kate would become a senator. He chuckled. "Wow. What did you say? Wait: first I have to tell you that is so fucking awesome."

He leaned forward and gave her a hearty kiss. "You, my wife, are Sofa King Awesome."

She ducked her head modestly. "And you are my Sofa King...king or something." She took a sip of her juice. "I told them I needed to think about it. And of course I haven't told anyone, first because it was so... weird, and second because I needed to talk to you. In the relative privacy of our fire escape."

He grew serious. "You don't think the new apartment is bugged, do you?"

"No, silly. I just like it out here. Plus I had your dad sweep it. Twice."

He took a bite of his pizza. "What are your concerns?"

"Oh, a million. That's a lot of time, a lot of responsibility, and I hate politics. And I forgot to even ask which exploratory committee they represent – are they democrat, republican, independent, some weird party I've never heard of? If they want to raise money, how do I stay out of the same mess Bracken got into?"

"Those are all good questions. Hey, I wonder how I'd do as a senator's wife. Husband. Whatever. I guess we'd get to kiss a lot of babies and do some thumping on the campaign trail." He looked alarmed. "Would I have to go to fundraiser brunches and play golf with mean people?"

"Yeah. Not only that, Castle... but both you and I have certain... indiscretions in our histories. They may preclude my being elected unless we're completely open about them."

"I never should have borrowed the police horse?"

Kate chuckled, then grew serious. "More recent than that. Your relationship to your brother and your dad, my having killed several people in the line of duty, your previous marriages, my previous con-artist pseudo-husband... those kinds of things can get dragged around in a senate race."

He looked just a little crestfallen. "But what about Simon Doyle?"

"Sim- you mean the little time travel guy?" She was being disingenuous. She knew exactly who Simon Doyle was, and she knew exactly how that coffee stain had wound up on that letter "from the future". Her mom's voice rang in her head, and she chuckled, repeating Johanna's words. "My mom used to say: _'Nothing ticks Katie Beckett off like being told what she's supposed to do...'" _

Rick said, "I've never heard you say the name 'Katie' before."

_Katie Beckett._ In spite of her father's continuous use of the nickname, she hadn't thought of herself as "Katie Beckett" since her mom's murder. She smiled a little sadly. "I guess Katie kind of died the day her mother was murdered."

Rick was gazing at her face in the soft orange light of the sodium street bulbs. "You have the strangest expression right now."

She ducked her head a moment, then shook it off. "I'm okay." She took another sip of juice and said, "Who's the last judge you voted for?"

"Oh, um, Beckett, you are asking _me_." He pointed to his skull. "Remembers everything, right?"

"Yeah. I'm asking you."

"Markway circuit, Morris criminal."

"And Markway's a friend, so you know he's divorced, blah blah blah. How about Morris?"

"I dunno. I didn't even consider..."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be a judge. Maybe make the first female Supreme Court Chief Justice, but I bet Hillary Clinton beats me to it at this point."

Rick cocked an eyebrow. "Love or hate her, the woman has baggage. Take a bite, Kate."

Kate took a bite and washed it down with juice. "As do I. Have baggage. But nobody cares about judicial baggage, so long as you're not obviously taking bribes or leaving pubic hair in someone's drink."

"And even then..." Rick shrugged. "you can get away with a _lot_."

"Sucks to be cynical. But I can't possibly be worse than what's-his-name, right?"

"You'd be a good deal better. You have an innate sense of fairness."

She pinched his cheek. "So young, this Padewan. So innocent."

"You already have a BA in criminal justice, right?"

She nodded. "If I focus, I can get a master's in law within a few years, then practice for a while, then _if _we've gotten a couple of kids under our belt, and _if _I turn out to be an effective lawyer, _perhaps_ even teach constitutional law for a while... _maybe_ I could give a try for judge."

""That's a comfortable level of maybe there. Worst thing that could happen is we'd get run out of town on a railcar."

"No problem. We both know how much you love trains..." she giggled.

His eyes were shining with pride. "There's a lot of injustice that can be righted without having a gun strapped to your hip every day." He put his hands on her hips, fingers sliding, as if to check. He also made sure there wasn't a holster strapped around her inner thigh. Nope. If there had been, he would have been delighted to unfasten it with his teeth.

"Yeah," she said. "I know of one injustice I plan to right before the night is through."

"What's that?"

She reached out for his bare chest and stroked her fingers down to his belly-button. "We haven't had sex since Sunday."

He gasped. "That's... just criminal."

She came in close, and he smelled the complex deliciousness that was pizza and merlot and Kate. She said breathily, "And I have a deep, unrequited need... for justice."


	62. Chapter 62

This is a very special chapter because I named it after Pumpkin Spice Dia, who inspired the entire story of TooSoon in the first place.

The original Pumpkin Spice Dia is not Mexican and may never have indulged in champurrado.  
The word Dia doesn't mean the same thing to her as it does here, but the ball dropped into my hand,  
and because I can't resist a pun, I had to run with it.

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 62 **

**Pumpkin Spice Dia De Los Muertos**

For the first time since... well, ever... Richard Castle did not throw a Halloween party. Well, not really. Not at home.

He and Kate laid in a stash of candy and carved a couple of jack-o-lanterns, put one out on the fire escape and another on a little table by their front door. There were a few children in their apartment building, and the doorbell rang a few times, but they had too much candy at the end of the evening, and Kate bagged it up to take it down to the homeless shelter.

Esposito came by and watched Ghostbusters with them, but spent most of the evening texting Ameena. The Ryans were at a little party with the neighborhood mommies' group, and Lanie had a hot date with yet another mystery man and a kitty-cat costume.

Alexis didn't come. Rick had phoned her on Halloween afternoon, just to say hi since they hadn't seen one another in a few weeks.

"If you don't have plans, would you like to come by and hand out candy with us? I'm making hot chocolate," he'd said.

Alexis had said, "Oh, I'd love to, but we're going to an all-night music jam on the lower East Side. David has a friend who's a music producer."

Castle had said, "Well, if it's a rave, keep an eye on your drink, and stay away from the punch."

"Dad, it's not a rave, but I will only drink beverages from sealed containers or mixed by reputable and trained bartending staff. Okay?"

"Okay. I love you, Pumpkin."

"Love you too, Dad."

"Look, Alexis?" He tried not to make his voice sound too desperate. "Hey, this is casual, but Saturday night, we're having a Day of the Dead fiesta for the harvest crew down at the farm. If you're not busy..."

"We'll try to make it," she said. "That sounds fun."

Maybe fun. But not promising. After he hung up, he sighed, and Kate smiled across at him. She didn't need to say it.

"I know," he said. "I should be proud she has her own life."

Kate just held out her arms for a hug. "That doesn't mean you have to be thrilled about it, either," she said gently. "I know it all goes by too fast."

* * *

•

Now that Rick and Kate lived at Beckett's Castle most weekends and whenever they could get away, they saw firsthand a lot more of the activities at Blueberry Hill Farm. As a wise woman once said, "Don't brand your cattle. Brand your customers." Between the high-profile restaurateurs, the subscription produce boxes, the occasional pick-your-own visitors, the farm stand, and the many visitors to the pumpkin patch and Christmas tree forest, the farm was doing great. In 2014, the apple harvest was huge, they sold all the cider they could squeeze, and the corn maze was immensely popular among families and teens from late July all the way up to the end of October when they got a light snowfall.

Matt and Chloe always made sure their employees – no matter how temporary - were treated well. They offered good pay, decent housing, reasonable hours and overtime pay during intense harvest seasons, safety training, good food, and there was a child care center set up that kept kids playing and reading and out of the field. (You can figure out who financed that.) And they made sure everyone was healthy. Dr. Locatelli came for a house call several times over the spring, summer, and early autumn to make sure all workers had up-to-date immunizations and basic health screenings. Everyone adored him, and although it was more than a bit out of his usual realm of expertise, he adored them right back.

Even with the extra expenditure, because the farm had such high quality output, it turned a reasonable profit. The whole thing paid off: Blueberry Hill Farm had a great reputation, spotless safety record, and the migrants came back year after year. They did a great job, and were happy to be there. But now, at the end of the East Coast harvest season, it was time for most of the migrant workers to move on.

Many of them were from Mexico or even further south. Rick was familiar with Dia de los Muertos, having lived in Southern California when his mother worked short-term on a TV series. So he decided to extend the paid day to November 2, and invited the workers to have their fiesta at the Farm. He hired an event planner (a very nice guy named Lance whom Gina had rejected for their wedding because he was "too.. you know. Over the top") to deal with acquiring the decorations, tables, chairs, tent, and all the serving wear. Day of the Dead is a family event, and it's very DIY. It would have been almost insulting to insist people sit down to eat catered food. They had plain sugar skulls for the children to decorate, they had Pane de Muertos. There were bartenders to handle margaritas, aguas frescas, beer, and wine, but the hot food and desserts were all made by people proud to show off family recipes and the occasional culinary experiment. All food and ingredients needed were provided in advance to those who wanted them to prepare things at home, and for those who needed to finish off their dishes on-site, Rick rented a portable outdoor kitchen setup.

The barn was cleaned up, a small stage installed, and a floor laid down for dancing. The area between the big house, Rick's storage barn, and the stable was decked out with tables, benches, a huge sheltered tent in case of inclement weather, and everything was festooned with flowers and lights and little LED candles (because hay). Kate spent much of the morning mixing up multiple batches of brightly-colored frosting and scooping it into little plastic bags, so that the guests could decorate their own sugar skulls by pricking a tiny hole in the corner and piping out thin lines of the bright icing. A group of teens filled a hundred small paper bags with a little sand, then placed candles inside. In the evening, the little traditional luminarias would light the entire driveway up to the farm. It was going to be beautiful.

* * *

•

Even though she was relegated to paperwork and the occasional interrogation, Kate had been busting her ass at the precinct, and both of them had been in and out of court for various cases ever since they'd returned from Ireland. So today, Rick didn't let Kate overdo it. In, fact when she got a little frayed-looking in the afternoon he took her back up to the house for "a little nap. And put your feet up."

We all know what happens when Rick and Kate 'take naps', and they had a glorious 'nap', right there on the couch in front of a lovely fire. Afterward, Kate fell asleep for real. She awoke with the soft, red throw draped over her, underneath a pile of puppies. Betsy, in Stealth Snuggle Mode, had arranged Little Blue, Azul, and Cielle about Kate's legs and squeezed herself in on the end, keeping Kate's feet warm. The puppies had been born on the warm bathroom floor on September 27, and they were nearly five weeks old. Little Blue looked like his eyes were going to stay that way. Azul and Cielle each had only one blue eye. They were all about the same size, staggering around on wobbly legs and oversized paws, occasionally tripping on their own ears, and they'd recently started scuffling and wrestling, running around the den room in circles. They weren't supposed to be on the furniture at all, but they were more-or-less house-trained, so Kate let it go. She sat up with a smile and stretched, moved the three puppies and a grumbling Betsy back into their den room, noting that Rick had changed their papers while she was asleep. She figured she'd have to deal with a lot of poo after the baby came. So it was all right with her that he was dealing with puppy poo now.

She then went upstairs to change for the party.

She took off whatever Rick hadn't already removed from her during 'naptime', and examined herself in the full-length mirror. Her reflection looked back at her with mixed feelings. Kate hadn't weighed this much since her "Kiev twenty-five". She'd spent the second semester of her Freshman year in Ukraine, and everyone there seemed to conspire to feed her because she was skinny, and cold just about all the time. Pierogis with sour cream and chives had been her downfall. Since she was so active, it was easy to lose that once she returned to New York, a place where you could go dancing until 4 a.m., or join a 24-hour gym that was actually open 24 hours. But gaining weight had made her feel insecure then, and insecure now.

Pregnancy was different, though. She'd tried to stick with really healthy food, but she was eating a lot, and along with a few inches around her waist, she'd gained a little weight everywhere – even her feet had gone up a half-size, and her breasts from an A cup to a C. She still looked perky, and having so much to play with drove Castle wild. But she still went through periods of near-exhaustion. She had always pushed herself too hard, and during the week, she still tended to let her workday get too long. Only now she couldn't get away with it anymore. Fortunately, her regular checkups showed that she was perfectly healthy, and Small was growing fast. The doctors kept going back and forth on her due date, because he was a little ahead of schedule. Now they were looking at the third week of January, which was Kate's least favorite time of year – her mother's funeral had been on the 23rd. One of the worst days of Kate's life. Yet it had led her to her career, to her greatest love, and now this new little life inside her.

She ran a hand over her belly. "I wish you'd been here to see this, Mom," she whispered. She dressed in burgundy turtleneck, some bulky charcoal-gray leggings, an elastic-waisted brown skirt, boots, and put Castle's green plaid car coat over the whole thing. Then she hesitated and put a small, framed photo of Johanna in her pocket, and headed out to join up with Rick down at the farm.

The day was shaping up to be very cold, with a possibility of some snow overnight. She hoped the fiesta would still be fun. They'd invited 220 people to arrive at four. By the time she got there, at least 50 guests had already arrived, most of them adults putting up more decorations or setting out homemade food in the chafing dishes provided by the event planner.

* * *

3:30 p.m.  
When she got to the barn, Chloe directed Kate to find Rick, who was at the stove in the outdoor temporary kitchen. A woman dodged past him with a huge pan of al pastor she'd been roasting in the oven. Already an improvised mariachi band (thankfully the tuba had not yet arrived) was playing in a corner, and at the craft tables, families were working on their sugar skulls and their altars. They had hired a battalion of face painters, and already many faces were decorated as friendly-looking, ornate skulls - some in the traditional black-and-white, some with an amazing range of colors, glitter, even metallic-looking paint.

Rick had eschewed paint because he was cooking and didn't want to steam it all off before the party. At this point, he was stirring an immense pot of something that smelled of cinnamon, chocolate, and possibly the warm, sweet breath of angel unicorns.

"What is that?" Kate sniffed. "Wow."

"My own invention: Champurrado Pumpkin Spice Dia De Los Muertos," he beamed. "Wanna try? Careful, it's hot."

He poured a splash out into a heavy white earthenware mug, and when he turned it toward her, she saw that it was painted with an ornate calavera – the skull symbol of Day of the Dead. She blew on the drink, then sipped. It was like Mexican hot chocolate, only a bit more complex, with a silky, creamy consistency. It wasn't as sweet as some she'd had, and there was a warm, earthy, aromatic note to it. She said, "Let me guess. Clove, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, fennel?"

"Close. Star anise." He grinned. "Plus a little extra chocolate. And a stealth ingredient: actual pumpkin puree."

Kate laughed and held out her mug to be filled. "You with your vegetables!"

He nodded and ladled out a serving for her. "So you like it."

"Like it?" she sipped at it, then licked a little off her upper lip. "It's heavenly."

"Good. Someone's grandma is probably going to get mad and insist I'm doing it wrong, but we'll probably go through a few batches tonight, so maybe we'll have a champurrado cook-off."

"Well, we'll just have to try all of them and see who wins."

A young man brought a tray of clean mugs and set them out on counter by Rick. Rick offered him a sample. "Here, Raul, what do you think?

Raul grinned. "Not bad, but if my abuelita tried this, she'd throw you out of the house for putting ginger in it."

Rick looked around anxiously. "Is she here?"

"No, she's home in L.A. But I hear there are as many champurrado recipes as there are grandmothers, so you're in for it."

It turned out that, while there were very few grandmothers actually working the farm, nearly everyone brought a friend or a relative and enough food for a dozen people. So the party ended up with about 300 guests, and food for 500, and they went through six different variations of champurrado, one hand-mixed with the traditional wooden tool, the _molinillo_. People kept showing up with gallons of milk, secret containers of spices, shaved piloncillo, and disk of Mexican chocolate.

No use fighting. It was all delicious. Kate gained almost a pound that weekend, and Small added an extra layer to his _vernix __caseosa, _because he intended to be born ready for action.

* * *

•

After much badgering, Kate let Rick talk her into sitting down and letting one of the artists paint her little baby-bump tummy like a jack o' lantern. They had a photo booth set up, and Rick had the photographer take a picture of her sitting on a hay bale, with a round orange face grinning out from between his borrowed plaid jacket and the lowered waistband of her fuzzy leggings. She looked slightly irritated and embarrassed, but amused at the same time. With the soft, late-autumn light on her hair and face, and her hands carefully cradling her silly orange tummy, it t became one of his favorite pictures of her. They took another photo, this time with him sitting behind her, his chin on her shoulder, holding her hand, and that was the photo they used for the baby announcement a few months later. A framed copy of it also went up on the wall, next to the old snapshot of Martha pregnant with him and Michael, and of Meredith pregnant with Alexis.

The tone of the fiesta was different from any Halloween party Rick had ever attended. He was fascinated by the strange mix of excitement and a sort of calm reverence, one area of the tent full of music, another with laughter, another quiet reminiscence. He sat near the altar, observing as people brought up little skeleton effigies, flowers, and photos of their departed families and friends, talking to their photos, telling stories about children and siblings and parents and friends and ancestors who were still held close and dear, even if departed. Kate came to sit with him, watched a while, then pulled out Johanna's photo and set it amongst the others, one of hundreds on eighteen feet of table length. A shadow crossed her face. "So many goodbyes," she whispered.

Kate noticed an appreciative smile from a little girl who had lit an LED candle for her grandfather's photo. The child's face was painted like a pink skull with turquoise and orange flowers, and green vines. Her wide brown eyes peeped out from amongst golden flower petals.

"Is that your mommy?" The little girl pointed at Johanna's photo.

Kate nodded. "Yes. Her name was Johanna."

"She's very pretty. My grandfather's name was Pedro. Are you going to have a baby?"

Kate looked down at her belly. She kept forgetting she was big enough to show even through bulky clothes now. "Yes, I am." Rick arose from his chair on the side and put a gentle arm around her waist, and Kate added, "We are."

The little girl's mother put a hand on her shoulder. "Blanca, don't ask such personal questions. You know better."

"It's okay," Kate said. "I like people who ask questions, as long as they're good ones."

Rick huffed a little and smiled next to her, and she gave him a little dig in the ribs. _People can change. _

Blanca said, "You should name your baby Pedro. It means 'Rock'. My grandfather was very strong. He used to throw me WAY high up in the air..." her voice squeaked as she raised her hands above her head "...and catch me."

"My grandfather used to do the same for me!" Kate said. "I'd forgotten that."

Blanca said, "Do you have a little girl?"

Rick smiled a little sadly. "She's all grown up now."

"You should have another one!" Blanca said. "It's no fun to be lonely."

"Blanca!"

Someone's auntie peered over from the other side. "She's right. Children need families."

Now Kate and Rick were both blushing. Rick said, "We'll see how we do with the first one, and let you know."

Blanca's mother rolled her eyes and whispered to Kate, "Don't let anyone pressure you. One can be _plenty_." She steered Blanca away. "Let's go see if anyone's brought sweet tamales."

Kate and Rick took time to look at the photos, and admire the little skeleton figurines. It was like a village: a skeleton band, skeletal businesses with barbers and street vendors and butchers and bakers and florists, skeletal pets and livestock, a fisherman with a bony little fish and an organ grinder with a tiny, bony little monkey. Kate reached out caressed the clay sculptures of a bride and groom.

"I love weddings," she smiled. "We should have another one. With a reception."

The words unspoken: _"Now that it's safe to do it without worrying about anyone getting killed."_

"We had the wedding on the beach," he said. "But it would've been nice to have everyone there. Let's do it."

"When?"

"Why don't we just leave the tent up and invite everyone next weekend?"

"It's Veteran's Day weekend, isn't it?"

"All the more reason." He kissed her hair. "It's not a big weekend for celebrations, and maybe we'll actually have everyone in town, even if it's short notice."

He spoke briefly with Matt, who consulted with Chloe and gave the okay. Then he texted Lance, the event planner. "You feel like throwing a wedding here next weekend? Leave the tent up?"

"$20k sound all right?"

"Sure. We'll need heaters too."

"No problem! Awesome!"

* * *

•

**11 p.m.**  
To Rick and Matt's surprise, a priest came down from the local diocese to lead a prayer in halting Spanish. At this point some children had already had their meltdowns and collapsed into sleeping bundles, and some were running around on their second wind, a little wild-eyed, hopped up on too much sugar and excitement. The mariachi bands took a break, and Kate might have fallen asleep for a while with her head on Rick's shoulder as he watched the impromptu mass in a language he barely understood.

At midnight, somewhere out in the cornfield, someone set off a few bottle rockets and Roman candles. Nothing caught fire. So that was good. The priest gave his last blessings and went home with a huge foil pan of food.

* * *

**•  
Sometime after midnight**

The older people rested their tired bodies, talking softly and laughing together with family and friends. The band started up again, and the young adults went back to dancing (okay, a few were having romantic issues that involved pouting, but such is youth).

After eating way too much food and growing weary of the mariachis' blare, Rick and Kate retreated to sit on a hay bale in a quiet corner, watching the dancing and the little girls making garlands out of marigold flowers (you see that in India, too, for a very different reason). Matt and Chloe joined up with them. Olivia's wolf suit had finally given up the ghost; she had been Iron Man for Halloween, and her new gold-and-red costume had seen some hard use for the last two days. She looked like the tiredest little superhero ever. Ella, dressed as a ladybug with a tiny pink skull painted on her cheek, was out cold in Matt's arms, drooling into his collar.

Chloe looked around at the fiesta and said, "I love this. We should have done it years ago."

Matt nodded. "It's a new one on me, but it's better than doing a haunted house. Not nearly as sticky."

They had tried doing a haunted house for a couple of years, but the corn syrup blood had gotten completely out of hand. And since spending that nightmarish morning at Murphy's house, Rick had actually Freecycled all his bloody plastic body parts and many of his gorier Halloween decorations. They'd lost their thrill.

Beckett was sipping just a little more "Pumpkin Spice Dia De los Muertos." She toasted him with her skull-shaped mug. "Castle, you've outdone yourself. This is even better than Halloween."

"I know, right?" he grinned. He sat with his legs astride her hay bale, and she leaned back into him, too cozy for words. Outside the night was frosty-cold, but here in the huge tent, with a crowd of happy people, it felt so warm and safe. Castle silently pointed her attention to a young mother and father, dancing with their little son, holding hands in a circle, laughing. She patted his knee. _"Us in three years!"_ she thought, and she knew he was thinking it too when he kissed her temple above her ear.

Chloe said, "It's hard to believe that by Tuesday, the last of the pumpkins and apples will have been shipped off, and most of these folks will be gone."

"Where do they go?" asked Kate.

"Anywhere they can find work. Florida, California, Arizona, some even go back to Mexico and have to risk coming back over the border. Every year we get new people, but every year we lose a few, and there's no way of knowing what becomes of them."

Kate felt some kind of tension run through Castle. "They're all legal, right?"

Matt said, "As far as we know. We're really careful, and when Immigration comes through their docs check out, but I imagine there are some pretty good forgers out there now."

"So when do they come back?'

"Oh, a little after President's Day Weekend. Some of them go up north to start the maple trees tapping, then circle back down."

She really felt it then, the jolt that went through him. His hands suddenly dug into his own thighs. He said, "Is there a maple syrup industry in New Hampshire?"

"Sure," Matt replied. "They're all through the northern states. We have a few up on the hill, but it's just for personal use. Takes 35 years for a tree to start producing..."

Kate swung around to look at Rick, and he scooted back on the bale to make room for her.

She squeezed his hand, hard, and they spoke at the same time. "Hollander's woods."

Matt and Chloe exchanged puzzled glances, alarmed by his anxious expression. "Never heard of it." Matt added, "What's this about?'

Rick hesitated, then it tumbled out. "I found a young woman's body when I was eleven, the winter before you and I met. But it disappeared, and there was no missing persons report to match her. There was no explanation. Thought I was imagining it."

"Jeez," said Matt. "I always kinda wondered where you got your ideas." He shivered.

Rick huffed. "I still wonder about the idea part!" He shook his head. "But as for the body, maybe she was a migrant worker. If she didn't show up for maple sugar season, people would have just written her off, right?"

Chloe nodded sadly. "The Mexican border's full of shallow graves. Or maybe folks thought your victim had found work elsewhere."

Castle pulled out his phone. Beckett put a gentle hand over his. "Rick. The rabbit hole can wait till morning, okay? It's almost 1 a.m."

Rick nodded, but his eyes were haunted. "I don't know whether I can make a difference anyway." He put his phone away.

Kate took his hands. "You can't bring her back, but maybe we can find a lead if we can figure out who went missing."

"Yeah," he said. The word was almost a sob. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Thanks."

Chloe said, "I'm gonna bring the girls in to bed. You guys here for the duration?"

Matt nodded. "Someone's gotta see the sun come up." He didn't normally pull all-nighters unless there was risk of frost or hail damage, but now he was sipping on coffee mixed with champurrado, and he'd make up for lost sleep the next day. He had set his own folks' photo on the altar among the others, along with a little offering of the things they liked best: a thimble of whiskey for his dad, tiny paper roses for his mom, a '57 Chevy Tonka truck for his brother, who'd died in Iraq. He was surprised to find that genuinely comforting. Chloe had put out pictures of her dad, and of her aunt Felicia, but no offerings. Maybe next year. Matt said, "I'll help you get the girls into the house. You guys okay here?"

Rick nodded. "Sure."

The mariachi band was playing a waltz. The tuba player had drunk his last beer and fallen asleep in a corner, so they were oompah-free, and the music took on a plaintive air, with lots of mentions of "_mi corazon"_. Kate said, "Dance with me?"

Rick nodded. They stepped onto the dance floor, and waltzed easily in a circle with the other dancers, yet in their own world. Kate was tired, but it felt so good to be in tune with this man, and when he smiled down at her, she knew he had set his troubles aside, focusing on the good. What a gift, to be able to do that. She said, "You constantly amaze me."

He looked almost startled, but flattered at the same time. "What?"

She hesitated, wondering if she should get so sentimental in public. "Most men of our generation don't waltz."

"They're missing out. How did you learn?"

"Oh, my dad taught me when I was little. Had me stand on his feet."

Rick said, "Mother made me take social dancing so I'd have something to do when she worked Dickens Faires. So I danced at Fezziwig's and taught fencing at the booth there. Got to fight the girls off with a stick. Literally."

Kate grinned. "I went to the one in San Francisco when I was at Stanford. 1998."

"Yeah, at the Cow Palace, right?" Rick said, "Mother played Mrs. Fezziwig one year. I liked hanging around with the old guys who played the chimney sweeps. They were utterly filthy and had some incredible BTS stories..."

The waltz finished up, and Matt – who had returned from the house - stepped up on stage. "Okay, folks, Los Hermanos del Rayo are gonna take a little break, have some coffee. They'll start up again at 2 a.m. Meantime, we have a nice little treat for ya... Catrina y Diego!"

A tall young man sauntered up on the stage with an accordion. He wore a black suit with a bolo tie, and his face was painted as a plain black-and-white calavera. A slim woman in a full Catrina costume joined him, her hair veiled in black and decked with red silk roses. She started up the strange, jagged, lilting strains of Camille Saint-Saens' masterpiece, _"Danse Macabre"_. The accordionist played along with her, the melody and harmony interweaving. A few people got up and waltzed, the shadows and light rendering their skeletal faces eerie as they spun on the dance floor.

Castle and Beckett, who's stood at the sidelines since they didn't know any Mexican folk dances and had no idea what to expect, joined in the dance again. "Alexis tried to learn this piece. She struggled with it for months. She used to trip on this next part, it's kind of notorious..."

The violinist flubbed it, just for a second, unable to manage the quick phrasing required by the piece.

Rick stopped and Kate bumped into him. He was staring at the violinist, her face unrecognizable in the white skull makeup. "_ALEXIS?_"

The violinist leaned toward him with a little bow, and a flourish of her instrument. She kept playing without skipping a beat, but bright blue eyes and a flashing smile revealed his daughter. Rick beamed with delight, and Kate nudged him back into the dance. He was the picture of joy. "I can't believe this," he said. "I had no idea she was coming!"

Kate grinned. "She wasn't sure they could make it tonight. David had a gig until 11. They've been practicing it for weeks. She wanted to play it for your Halloween party, then you cancelled it. She told me, 'maybe next year.' " Kate was starting to feel just a little dizzy. "Ohh, can we slow down a little?"

"Sure." But he could see she was a bit wobbly, and they moved off to the side. Kate sat in a chair, and Rick stood beside her as she leaned against the warm, solid wall of his body. They watched and listened as Alexis and David played their piece.

When they finished, the room broke into applause (without the cheers, whistles, and catcalls reserved for the mariachi). Alexis and David stepped down and Rick rushed at his daughter, enveloping her in a hug. "Oh, Pumpkin, I'm so glad you came!"

David looked like he was coming in for a handshake, and Rick bypassed that to give him a hug as well. "That's the best accordion I've ever heard," Rick said. "I'm ashamed by my own prejudice. I love Danse Macabre. That was _great_."

David looked like he had been bracing himself for backhanded, sarcastic accordion comments. Alexis had warned him it might not go over so well. Under the skull makeup, his face brightened. "Thanks!"

Kate hugged the two of them as well, then let them go to pack their instruments away while Los Hermanos del Rayo took the stage. She said, "Hey, Rick. I'm sorry, I just kind of hit a wall. Need to sleep."

He nodded and kissed her. "I know. I'll get you to the house and hang out here with Matt."

Alexis and David were actually pretty exhausted, and after being pressed with cups of champurrado (Rick's version was long gone – this was Champurrado #5, with no anise but a shot of vanilla added to the mix) they offered to drive Kate back up to the Castle. This was a relief, since Kate hadn't given much thought to walking back up the hill as the first flakes of a snowstorm came down in the middle of the night, although she supposed she could always crash on Matt &amp; Chloe's couch with the farting dogs.

No. Much better to go back up to Beckett's Castle, rather than sending Alexis and David back to the city or putting them up, so very late, at a local hotel. They had a guest room set up, and if Rick had any problem with Alexis and David sharing it, he'd have to work through it. God knows, if a man can rise above a hatred of accordions, he can rise above anything.

He asked Matt, and Matt fetched a pad of paper and a pen from the house. Rick sat up all night, occasionally talking with Matt, helping people wipe up spills or wrap up food to take home. He spent much of the time writing. First he wrote out a rough plan for the wedding next weekend, and composed a short, sweet invitation, which he would run by Kate in the morning then send with her approval

Richard Castle Beckett  
and  
Katherine Houghton Castle Beckett  
request the pleasure of your company  
At a renewal of Our Wedding Vows  
Saturday, November 8, 11 a.m.  
(Yes. This coming Saturday!)  
Luncheon reception to follow.  
Dress for dancing.  
Beckett's Castle  
Walden Hill, New York

Then he spent an hour writing about the dead girl he'd found in the woods. It would be the last case that he would work with the Twelfth Precinct, which was only fitting. And he had every intention of keeping his 'case closed' rate with Kate at 100%. Whatever it took - he was gonna go out with a bang.


	63. Chapter 63

**Too Soon Chapter 63**  
**The Woods**

I can't give you an exact quote, but somewhere in The Two Towers, Tolkien observes that it's easy to tell a story where things go wrong and everyone's miserable, but very hard to tell a tale where everything feels good and everyone is happy. So this is a tough chapter that I'm writing under duress.

And, as usual, it surprised me.

Please remember: it's not a wedding that makes a happy ending.

* * *

•

Dawn stretched her pink-and-purple petticoats over the western edge of the Hudson Valley, where an inch of snow had dusted overnight. The farm huddled, waiting, under its lacy white blanket. Up on the hill, Kate Beckett slept in her castle, with a pile of puppies who had mysteriously migrated onto her bed sometime after 3 a.m., their mother curled at her back, snoring lightly. Down the hall, Alexis and David lay sated in one another's arms. She had fallen asleep, but he was used to being awake all night, and he lay stroking her flaming hair, smiling, as the sun peeped through the guest room window. He'd had a lot of fun helping her into the Catrina costume with the corset. They'd had a lot more fun getting her out of it.

**The Barn, 6 a.m.**

The last few revelers said quiet prayers at dawn, packed up whatever food they wanted to take home, and retrieved precious photos and mementos from the altar table. Rick and Matt slept through that, stretched out on hay bales. Matt had rolled over on his stomach and dreamed that he was back in Iraq, his face pressed into desert rock, unable to rise as black, feathered wings, sharp as knives circled overhead.

Rick, on the other hand, stood at the pearly gates, naked as the day he was born, with old Petros at his side, looking at his murder board (which was odd since at that time, nobody was actively trying to kill him that he knew of). It had grown larger, expanding for miles up, and to either side, a solid yet flickering wall, a barrage of information too immense to absorb or take in all at one time, each memory compartmentalized - no, pigeonholed. Actual pigeons, with actual holes. No, tiny screens in their chests with little movies of things he'd seen and done, thoughts he'd had, ideas he'd kept and run with or discarded or lost. And when he tried to look at them, they scattered and flew about, wheeling in the deep-cobalt sky above him, turned into skeletal pigeons that perched on skeletal buildings, cooing and popping out hard, dry, round little pellets that rolled off the shoulders of equally skeletal statues, the eaves of shattered, windowless buildings against a sky that had grown gray and pitiless and cold. He shivered.

Petros said, "You really should go somewhere warmer."

"Like Mexico?" said Rick.

"Maybe just for the winter."

He was in the central plaza at some village in Mexico – he'd gone all over the place as a tourist over the years, and what he saw was a conglomeration of ten or twenty that had all been so similar: Church. Square. Fountain. Outdoor Market With Fruit. Maybe he'd followed the pigeons, he didn't know. No, pigeons don't migrate... suddenly the sky was full of monarch butterflies, millions of them, so many that he could hear the flapping of their wings like the distant rustle of bright-orange plastic tablecloths being bundled up and thrown away by a catering staff. There were a few people around, skating or playing games with balls and disks, a silent mime-bride stood on a milk crate and gave out daisies to passersby, some couples picnicked on the grass, a man sold balloons, a second sold pan de muerto, a third, cotton candy. Three girls played jump rope. They were all skeletons, life size, picked clean, brightly dressed, permanently smiling. An elderly couple shuffled by, both impeccably dressed: a tall, old man with glasses, and a tall, slim woman, with severe osteoporosis, and he knew it was himself and Kate, long and far in the future, walking along still holding hands, with a large skeletal dog sniffing along at their side. He reminded himself that Kate was gonna need to be getting more Vitamin D.

He looked up at the angel statue on the fountain. She was also a skeleton, bedecked with flowers, and faces flitted by across her skull: Greta Schirrmacher, Puja Gashkouri, Kelly Nieman, many others, victims and perpetrators blurring together. He said, "How do I get here? How do I find her?"

A small child stood beside him, holding not a doll, just the head. A little skull, stained from rotting at the bottom of a compost heap. This child had a face, little Rosie O'Shaunessy with bright green eyes and thick brown, undyed hair, freckles and crooked teeth. She was trying to tug at his sleeve, but oh, wait, no sleeves. Awkward. She said, "Look for her face."

"Whose?"

"The girl in the woods. Look for her face." She pointed up to the faceless angel again, and features flitted across like a slot machine. Medium olive skin, dark brows, dark eyes, full lips, oval structure, there. Ding! A bell rang somewhere, or maybe it was someone accidentally smacking two wine glasses together as they went into the plastic tray to take back to the rental agency.

"_There_." said Rosie. "The one with the three crosses and the blood on her face. Now, take those out. Make her all pretty."

Rick stared into a face he had never seen animated by life, the face of the murdered girl, not a teen but still too damn young. He felt sick, struck again as he had been many times, by the horror she must have faced as her life was ripped from her. He felt sick at himself, that he had not pursued it harder before, with all the resources available to him.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he seethed.

Michael was standing next to him now, burnt around the edges, with two charred wings sticking out of his back at awkward angles as if someone had just shoved them in amongst his ribs. There was a thin film of brownish smog around him.

"You weren't ready to see her," Michael sneered. "Even now, are you so totally useless you can't figure out how to find her?"

"She's dead," Rick said.

"Gone, but not forgotten, maybe. But who would have her picture? What's the point when you'll never even see it?"

Rick's heart jumped. "On an altar. Someone out there is still missing her. Someone … maybe someone's just waiting for that phone call, that letter, for her to show up on their doorstep after all these years."

"There's not just one photo," Michael chuckled. "You know that, right? You know she's not the only girl with crosses carved on her face. Not the only missing girl with black hair and brown eyes. It's hopeless. I hope you enjoy this little can of worms."

Rick leaned his face against something that prickled like a hay bale, closed his eyes. He opened his eyes once, and found his cheek against the scaly, red, androgynous breast of Mephistopheles, studded with little black volcanoes of black ooze, like tar-exuding barnacles. Hot breath panted in his ear, and a long, wet tongue laced his jaw.

Mephistopheles said, "You'd better remember this when you wake up. Don't waste my time."

* * *

Rick sat up with a start. Betsy had sneaked out of the house somehow, come all the way down to the barn, and found him. She tended to get a bit annoyed when he was gone too long. And he knew that she'd been cooped up with the puppies more than made her happy. She put her paws up on the hay bale and shoved her shockingly-cold nose into his face. "Mroooof."

He blinked around, then closed his eyes again a moment, trying to hang onto his dream, and then he was really awake. He sat up and stretched, looking around. "At least I don't have a hangover," he told Betsy.

Although she didn't know why, she thought he seemed sort of proud of himself. She nudged his hand with her forehead and grinned at him. _"Good boy."_

Matt, who had a weakness for Margaritas, was not so fortunate. He had slid off his own hay bale altogether and lay crumpled on the floor in a sort of trough between two prickly yellow rows.

Rick always half-expected Betsy to answer when he asked rhetorical questions. "Betsy, where's Kate?"

Betsy gave him the Look Of _"Even If Betsy Is A Very Bad Girl Do You Still Love Me?"_

He said, "Some day I'm gonna figure out how you sneak out of the house, and then … well, you won't get to do that anymore." But he rumpled her ears, and stood to look around. The place was very nearly clean, all the usable food being packed up for the church soup kitchen, Lance's hired staff handling the packing and sweeping. Lance and his crew were clearing the tables and folding up chairs. The altar table was being stripped down, 300 tiny LED candles switched off to flicker another time, the real flowers to be composted and the fake to be reused next year. There were only a very few pictures and mementos left behind. Rick's heart skipped a beat, and he hurried toward the altar. Had he seen the girl there, from the corner of his eye? He wasn't sure. He hadn't looked closely at the photos. Many were small, blurry snapshots. But Kate's photo of Johanna was still there. He wrapped it carefully in his spare handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket.

Lance breezed by him. The only photos left on the table belonged to Matt and Chloe. "Let's set these safely aside," said Lance. "After this I'll go home and crash, then tonight we can go over what you and Kate want m for your little rush wedding." He patted his own, very flat and sculpted, tummy. "Make everybody legit in the eyes of the state."

"Oh, we're already married, we eloped a couple months ago after, uh, some stuff happened. We just want to make it up to our friends," Rick said. "No real pressure. More like a big party."

"Oooh! Well, in that case, maybe we won't have any major Bridezilla issues to deal with," Lance rolled his eyes in relief, then added hastily. "Not that your wife seems like the Bridezilla type."

"Not this one," Rick smiled. "You're lucky Gina didn't hire you. Dodged a bullet there."

"Haha, the fondant-covered, ulcer-inducing bullets I have eaten could pave the road to Hell," said Lance. "And yet I survive."

Rick set Matt's photos near him on his hay bale. Betsy, in full search-and-rescue mode, had decided that Matt was cold and needed someone warm to fall asleep on him. Rick grinned and shook his head. "Your puppies are gonna be so ticked-off when they find out you're living a double life," he said. "Working mother."

Then he and Lance took down the three 6' tables that had comprised the altar, and carried them out to the waiting truck.

Lance said quietly, "This was a nice event, Rick. We'll make your reception just as beautiful."

Rick nodded. "It's nice that Armistice day and Thanksgiving happen in the same month. Kind of peaceful."

Lance giggled. "Sort of an inverse 'Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.'"

"Put down your guns and say thank you? Doesn't have quite the same ring to it."

* * *

•

Everything was cleaned up by 7 a.m. "Ugh. Daylight savings time. Can I have my hour back now?" Rick grumbled. He and Betsy had walked uphill through the orchard, and he went quickly, because his jacket was just a little bit light for the frigid weather. The last of the leaves had fallen, leaving a few missed fruit on the branches. It hadn't been cold enough to freeze an apple through; he plucked the last Northern Spy and munched on it with great care, eating around the wormhole (welcome to the world of organic farming). Its cold, sweet astringency was just right after a night of rich food and way too much champurrado.

He unlocked the gate and the two of them passed through, then they continued on. Pink dawn sunlight sliced horizontally between the trees on the wooded road. The light snow wouldn't stick, but it sure did feel like winter would come early this year. Betsy smelled the cold little paws of a raccoon, and the freezing tootsies of a couple of skunks, and the last despair of a mouse before its tracks disappeared in the wake of an owl.

A couple of crows jabbered at them from one of the oak trees as they passed the bare brown twigs of the snowball bush. They went around the back of the house and in through the back kitchen door to the mud room. Before taking off jacket and boots, Rick opened a bin to get supplies for the birds outside: peanuts for the crows, smaller seeds for the other birds.

Visually he checked to see if the automatic door switch was on, and it was. A useful thing, keeping hands free when going in and out with trash or groceries, eventually with a stroller. The switch allowed the big red button to work, and the big red button could be nudged with hip, knee, or foot (for the limber) to open the door, and then it would close behind you, locking after sixty seconds. This time he paused.

"Bets, can you open the door?"

She pressed the big red button with her paw, the door swung open, and he laughed. "You figured that all out on your own?"

She looked like she was laughing right back at him. Her tail wagged. _"Well, yeah. You think I'm an idiot?"_

"We are in _so_ much trouble," he sighed. He knew he should be worried. He knew he'd have to change the system. He said sternly, "You can't just have dogs opening doors whenever it takes their fancy." Her tail drooped a little and her head did the Anxious Tilt of "_But I Thought You'd Be Proud of Your Very Smart Girl." _

He was kind of delighted and stopped trying to hide it. "You are the coolest dog ever. Maybe I should teach you how to do the rhumba."

She did the Dance of _"Oh, yes, Betsy is the coolest dog ever!"_ around his knees as they went outside to feed the birds. The crows were already at the half-buried birdbath disk sticking out of the tree trunk. Even though he was technically early, they were scolding him, and he had to brush them aside to sweep away the old shells and pour the peanuts in. Amongst the shells were a few gifts: a button, a little girl's sparkly plastic hairclip, a scrap of foil gum wrapper. Rick said, "Ooh. Shiny!" and held them up for the crows to see, then placed them in his pocket to add to the collection they'd started bringing him a few days ago. "Thanks, guys." Then he filled the smaller feeders for the finches, enjoying the bright-red flash of cardinals. He'd never had a bird feeder before. "I feel like Snow White," he grinned. If you feed birds in Manhattan, all you get is a bunch of leprous-looking pigeon stalkers.

He took off his boots in the mudroom, and wiped Betsy's ears (they tended to collect stuff when she sniffed around in the world) and her feet. "Good girl," he said, then sniffed, and looked in the den where the puppies were sequestered, and sighed. Their basket was empty. Fortunately at five weeks, they were potty trained, and they had mastered the habit of leaving their little surprises on the blue pads he laid out fresh three times a day. But she liked to carry the pups upstairs to sleep on her old bed in Rick and Kate's room (and sometimes to sneak them onto Kate when she took a nap, because she got cold easily and Betsy did tend to worry). Mo had advised Rick to crate her at night, and usually he had, but ... those eyes.

They went upstairs. Kate was asleep with just her adorable nose peeping out from a fold in the duvet. Little Blue, Azul, and Cielle were tucked into the small of her back. Rick took a photo with his phone, so that he could later blackmail her with the cuteness of it all. He then took the two larger puppies in his arms. He whispered to Betsy, "Come on, let's go."

"_But Kate looks cold..."_

"Get Cielle, Bets. Come on."

He carried the two smaller puppies downstairs, and she followed him with Cielle dangling by his scruff from her jaws.. Another few days, and she'd be unable to carry them anymore. But she'd already started lessons on climbing the stairs, and they'd have it mastered by the end of the week.

By now all the puppies were awake. He gave them fresh puppy kibble with milk, and the same for Betsy, and sat reading a little while, waiting for everyone to process their breakfast. Then he changed the pads out, washed up, shut them into the den room, and went upstairs, with the sound of happy yipping and play-growling wafting behind him. He took a brief, warm shower, brushed his teeth, put some pajamas on, and crept into bed with Kate.

She was the essence of cozy softness, and oh, she smelled wonderful, like cinnamon, puppies, home, and pregnant Kate. He'd been feeling sort of sleepy, but suddenly a major part of his body was wide awake. He tucked in behind her, one arm perched along her side with his hand on the swell of her hip. But he was careful not to pull too close, he didn't want to waken her, oh, no, really he didn't, but, she was so very soft. But no. She needed her...

She rolled over and threw half her body over him, her thigh right over his hips. "Hey," she murmured. "Morning wood?"

He shifted a little. "It's okay. Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep." He kissed her hair.

"It's Sunday," she nuzzled into his collarbone, then licked into his ear, "I can't go back to sleep unless you do." She was wearing winter-weight silk pajamas. The softness of her inner thigh against his member had his entire endocrine system revving into turbo mode.

"Whoa, whoa, you keep doing that, I'll be up all morning."

"Trust me. I can be very efficient," she grinned. Then she made a face. "Gotta pee!" She jumped up and scampered to the bathroom.

"Isn't it a little early for scampering?" He was always amazed at how _fast_ she woke up.

"Got things to be. Husbands to do," she explained from the bathroom as she washed her hands. She came back to bed, her little tummy and breasts bobbing as she hurried to him, already unbuttoning her top.

The next thing she said was, "You like this, don't you."

"Oh... Beckett, it's so hard..."

"Mmhm?"

"For me to complete a sentence..."

"Mhm?"

"When your mouth..."

"Mmmmm...?'

"...is full..."

"Mmmmmmmmm."

Twenty-three minutes later they were sound asleep.

* * *

•

They got married again that Saturday. Out of the 200 original guests, 112 were able to make it. They said the same vows they'd said at their beach wedding in the Hamptons, because really, can you improve on perfection? Kate wore a simple white dress and no veil, her dad gave her away, and this time Judge Markway got to officiate instead of the Random Very Nice Representative of the Church Of Universal Knowledge and the State of New York that they'd gotten last minute, last time.

If there was a little extra security at this particular wedding, nobody batted an eye. But there were a lot of happy tears. Seeing Rick and Kate together, glowing, after they had been through so much that summer and fall... it was a precious thing.

Jackson Hunt was there, at Martha's side. He never even pulled out his laptop, the whole way through the afternoon.

Esposito sat with his date, Ameena Gashkouri, who had flown over from Ireland. They arrived a little late, straight from the airport, and she often glanced over at the formidable Lanie Parish, who had come to the wedding with her cousin again, just in case. About five minutes into the reception, Lanie just sashayed over to Ameena and Esposito and held the moment, looking Ameena coolly up and down. Then her smile went from hard to soft. "Javi, she's gorgeous." She extended a friendly handshake to Ameena and grinned. "Promise me you'll run him ragged."

The entire Gates family showed up, with Corinne still in a wheelchair but expected to make a full recovery from her head injury. The band played a wide mix of songs. At one point Ryan and Esposito got up and sang "Definition of Love", and the Gates' two kids sat in Corinne's lap while Victoria wheelied them around in a circle, all of them laughing hysterically.

If Lanie ended up getting roaring drunk and having sex with one of Rick's writing buddies in one of the (empty)horse stalls, you didn't hear it from me.

Perlmutter declined as well; he and Arlene had received a gift of tickets to Japan, and he'd added the four-day Veteran's Day holiday onto his two weeks. He was actually going to take Arlene to the factory where she'd been made, and discuss some modifications. In person.

Mo, his wife Kamila, and Nuwwar came. It was Nuwwar's first Western-style wedding and she was a little disappointed that it was so sedate, but at least she got to wear a fairy costume. Unlike their previous planned wedding, this time Rick and Kate had three flower girls: Nuwwar, Ella and Olivia. Olivia actually wore a dress. The three girls flitted around the barn, their wire-and-glitter wings sparkling, scattering flower petals and blowing bubbles.

The dogs were all invited, and comported themselves admirably. Kamila Atta was pretty shy with people, but she loved dogs, and for much of the wedding and reception, since Rick and Kate seemed to be getting along fine, Betsy sat under the table between Kamila and Mo, giving Kamila the Lean _"Of It's Okay, Sweetie, Everyone's Gonna Love You."_ When the food came, she and Chloe struck up a conversation about their girls' respective obsessions with princesses and superheroes, and the rest of the evening went comfortably. Kamila and Mo even got up and danced a couple of times.

Alexis had given her speech (which had been only a little embarrassing) and was now a little tipsy out on the dance floor with David. David knew the foxtrot and guided her through it pretty well. Martha and Jackson were out there too, gliding along like the experts they were (yes: the foxtrot is an essential tool in the Secret Agent Arsenal of Social Skills).

After Rick and Kate had their first dance, they sat together quietly at their table, nibbling on small plates from a variety of harmonious cuisines.

Rick said, "Hey, I have a little present for you. Nothing big."

Kate, who'd had her head on his shoulder, sat up with a grin. "Really."

He pulled out a cheap little gold-foil gift box. It looked slightly smashed, as if it had traveled a way. "Mary Lafferty had the box on hand. When I stayed with them last time, I went for a walk..."

Kate's eyes went wide. "Stop right there. I have something for you, too." She opened her little white satin clutch purse. It wasn't exactly Kate, but it was very... bridal.

She pulled out a tiny organza drawstring gift bag. Rick could see a small, brown shape peeping through the sheer fabric.

He frowned, a little perplexed, and said, "Oh, my God. You're kidding."

She looked slightly hurt, "Remember that night, under the tree? I put it in my pocket."

His face brightened with the memory, and something else, pure excitement. "No, no, no, I love it. _I love it_. I love _you!_ Open the box."

Kate did, pulled aside a soft wad of cotton, and gasped. "Matched set?"

Two acorns, both from the same oak, an ocean away.

"I thought we could plant a tree where the birdbath blew up."

"We can plant both, side-by-side."

"Build a treehouse in ten years."

"This is so … cool!" Rick chortled. "I checked with an arborist. He said that as long as it's … as long as _they're_ decontaminated for soil pathogens, it's fine to plant them on our land. There's barely any old-growth left on the hill and quite a few trees are European imports anyway, so it's not compromising any... mphh."

Anyone who saw her plant that big kiss on him would have thought he'd given her more sapphires.

* * *

•

Meredith, who was in the Antilles making a movie about super-intelligent crocodiles from Atlantis, had to decline, so the whole thing went off without a hitch. The band was great, the food superb, the happy couple radiant, the guests finally got the long-postponed event they so richly deserved, and also, nothing caught fire.

Unless you count that thing Rick and Kate did once they'd holed up in their ensuite for the night. That was pretty damn hot. No, I'm not telling. Use your imagination.

•

* * *

A/N - there is actually a movement in Europe to clone from the most ancient trees that have survived centuries (and in some case milennia) of change. I think this is a cool idea on one level, but if you have a whole bunch of genetically-identical plants, sooner or later some opportunistic organism is gonna take them all down at the same time. I like acorns and seeds. Go Diversity! ;-)


	64. Chapter 61: Contractual Obligations

_Possibly not for the squeamish, but it was fun to write. Thought I'd lost this chapter but there's something wrong with the search engine in my O.S. I wrote this months ago and it took some digging to find, in case you've noticed some chapters may be misnumbered. I blame mercury in centigrade :-D  
_

* * *

**TooSoon Ch 61: Contractual Obligations**

**Friday, January 9, 2015, 4:30 a.m.**

Rick jerked awake with another nightmare, sat up sweating. Kate got up to pee, and when she came back to bed, they talked quietly, his thundering heart slowed then sped up again as she caressed him. They made love, more or less, and he conked out at the lower half of the bed with his feet sticking off, until Betsy licked his toes and he pulled them back under the covers in his sleep.

He awoke again just before his 6:30 alarm went off, glanced first at the time, then at Kate. She was warm all the time now, and frequently pulled the covers down. He read the words tattooed on her abdomen, right above her hipbone, now stretched and distorted by their baby's growth: "Omnia Vincit Veritas." He whispered those words to her belly button, kissed it, and felt the skin beneath him stretched as tight as a drum. Small gave an exploratory punch (Rick correctly guessed a fist) and Beckett mewled a little in her sleep. Rick slipped backwards out of bed and readied himself for the day's dreaded court appearance. All in all he looked deceptively good, no matter how he felt: his hair had grown back and mostly covered the fading scar on his temple. His nose had been wrestled back into its proper position by a very expensive osteopath. The only thing that undermined the facade was his eyes - slightly bloodshot, with sockets shadowed by restless nights. He'd taken to shaving again after Thanksgiving, and was rocking a metrosexual charcoal suit, a white shirt that somehow made him look too pale despite his fading tan. He selected a tie that at first glance appeared tasteful but at second glance was embroidered with tiny rocket ships. Heading out of the room, he tried to be quiet but tripped over the rocking chair's extended leg and muffled a curse.

Kate rolled out of bed, gave him a pained smile, and waddled to the bathroom again, too tired even to put a robe on. "Wait for me, Babe."

When she emerged, he let her stand naked and knot his tie for him, not because he needed help, but because Kate needed to help him. "I'm so sorry," he said, for about the fifth time, and helped her shrug her robe on over her shoulders. It didn't quite meet in front, but he tied a bow over her belly anyway.

She looked silly, tired, splendid all at the same time, but her face was sad. "I wish you could stay home with me."

"Look, I don't want you to be alone on this day, I know it's really hard. You could come to the city, we could go to the cemetery after court lets out. We could be back here by seven at the latest."

She shook her head. "No, I need to get the Castle packed up so we can head back to the city this weekend. And I'd rather not spend a lot of time in the car with my back like this." But it wasn't just her back, which had been sore for days. She'd gained 45 pounds of baby-and-water-weight, and she felt swollen and puffy. Her hair had grown out luxuriantly but was nearly untameable. She'd resisted buying much maternity wear and was heartily sick of everything she could fit into. She had a breakout on her chin, and worst of all, her ankles were so swollen she'd had to buy new boots first in a size 10.5, then size 11.

It had been a freakishly cold winter. While the house was gorgeous and cozy, the landscape outside was dotted with white patches of snow left from the last storm a week before. It was not the sort of weather one enjoys when stuck in traffic on the way to Manhattan. With only three weeks to go in her pregnancy, she really wanted to stay the hell out of the car.

Rick donned his big wool overcoat, the brown Armani that made her want to bundle up inside and snuggle with him when they went out on snowy days. "Are you up for walking Betsy?"

"Weather report says it won't snow again until tonight." She looked out the window and said a little wistfully, "Blue sky right now, for a change."

He stopped and put his hand on her cheek. Even though she had actually cried the day before because nothing fit and she felt like a whale and her mom was dead and would never, ever see Small, and her eyes were still red and puffy, he still thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. "Maybe take her outside rather than using the treadmills," he said gently. (Yes. Betsy had her own treadmill. Because she really, really needed to run or she turned into rather a spazz.) "You think the fresh air and sunlight would do you good?"

Kate nodded. "Probably. I'll think about it."

He pulled her into his arms, and she leaned hard on him. "I've been thinking about your mom," he whispered. "If you want, I can visit her grave for you, bring her some flowers."

She stared up at his face, blinking back tears. "You'd do that?"

"Sure. I'd be honored. Red roses? They look pretty in the snow."

Kate bit her lip and nodded. "You are _so_ sweet."

He kissed her cheek. "I'll send you a pic when I'm there, okay?"

When he grabbed his keys out of the bowl by the front door, Betsy sat blocking it, milking every drooping, squishy inch of her naturally lugubrious expression to keep him from going out.

"Sorry, Sweet Girl," he said, juggling her ears. "You look after Kate, all right? Maybe get her to take a nap? There's a good girl. Now, you stay."

She groaned and gave him the Look of _"Curse you and your Inevitable Betrayal"_, but he was backing out the door. Besides, she'd been trained to "Stay" when people said, _"Stay"_, whether she liked it or not and no matter How Stupid They Were Being. Except that one time, with Matt. But that was different.

After he left, Kate did some yoga, trying to stretch her lower back. She wished she could do Downward Dog, but she wasn't allowed to do inverted poses this late in the pregnancy. She spent some time rearranging the baby's clothes in the nursery drawers, (again) and checked all the supplies to make sure they had everything: cloth diapers from the service, hypoallergenic wipes, "leak-proof" covers (sorry, Kate, no such thing!), butt paste, talc-free powder...

They had an almost identical setup at the apartment in the City. She was still torn about it. She picked up the phone and called Rick as he drove to court.

"Castle, do you really think we should move to town to have the baby?" If there was a little bit of a whine in her voice, he ignored that.

"Whatever you want to do, Kate. Do you still feel okay about doing the home birth in the tub?"

"Yeah, but maybe … I don't know, the apartment's a lot smaller, and the portable tub fits okay, but it will feel a little cramped having it in the living room." It would take a few hours to fill, so they'd do that part a few days before the due date and turn the heat pump on when she went into labor.

"Kate, If you're having second thoughts, we can have the baby at the Castle. We've got a midwife and doula on call, they don't care where you have a baby, and Locatelli can get here within an hour. And the hospital at Middletown is just as good as the one in Manhattan."

"But what if there are complications? Having the baby at the Castle... I don't know. I guess we should just stick with the plan and move back to the City."

They'd had this discussion four or five times over the last few days. He said, "Whichever makes you more comfortable, Beckett. I know you'll make the right choice." He sounded a little absent-minded. "I'm parking now. I'll call you at break. Love you."

Betsy didn't understand all the words, but she could smell what was going on. She couldn't believe, after how well Rick had done with the puppies, that he could possibly have driven away in the Red Rumbler and left his girls behind. She hoped he'd make it home in time.

* * *

**New York County Courthouse, Manhattan**

**9 a.m.**

"All rise for Judge Leticia Morris."

Castle stood as the judge took her place, then sat again. He was glad that his attorney, Pemberton, was the sort of man who respected personal space. The two men took up a lot of bench room in the crowded courtroom, but Rick needed it. He was nervous, fooling with his notebook, his knee bouncing a little, and he twisted around repeatedly to see anyone entering or leaving the courtroom. Esposito and Karpowski were already there; they'd all said hi, but they were sitting with Kayla Twimbly to offer moral support, and Castle's attorney thought it wise to keep some distance from the plaintiff.

Rick was torn between wishing Kate had come, and relief she was home catching up on her rest. This was her first week of maternity leave, and it was also the anniversary of Johanna Beckett's death. The weather had been snowy and now Manhattan was grimed with brownish-gray slush, awaiting another wave of storms in the afternoon.

The prisoner was brought in a few moments later: Albert Grossman, the accountant who had kept Kayla Twimbly as his sex slave for ten days in a secret room at the Old Haunt. Castle watched the accountant coldly as he shuffled forward in his orange jumpsuit and sat at the table before the judge. The suspect was medium-height, and seemed like he had been skinny in youth only to sprout a potbelly he still didn't believe was there. A bald spot shone through his wiry brown hair, and a constellation of moles dotted his face and skinny, bare, pale forearms. He was sweating; there was a dark V forming through the orange jumpsuit, along his spine.

Rick looked over at Kayla, whose usual rambunctious demeanor was decidedly muted. He was overcome with admiration for her bravery. Kayla had elected not to testify by video, preferring instead to confront her attacker in a public court of law. Because of Castle's involvement in the case, he couldn't contribute directly to her legal assistance, but Gates' connection at the DA's office had proven helpful, providing her an attorney named Rebecca Levi whom Castle knew to be both kind and effective. Karpowski sat on the row's end on Kayla's right, and Esposito sat next to Levi; Kayla's folks and grandmother sat directly behind her.

Rick had mixed feelings to see that attorney Alice Rayburn was there from the DA's office as prosecutor. She was terrifying, but a great person to have on your side.

Rick's attorney, Pemberton, nudged him. "I'm not entirely sure what tack Rayburn will take, but we have reasonable hope she won't be raking you over the coals."

"That doesn't sound too encouraging," Rick said.

"It isn't. Just remember: stay relaxed and answer the questions directly. Do not elaborate. Do not speculate. Do not fool around. And this is _no_ time to be charming."

Rick nodded, his face a little green. "I don't think I have any charm left," he murmured. "What about the defense attorney?"

Pemberton shrugged. "Vinnie Vomero? Kind of a dick. He might come at you from left field. He does his homework, likes to push buttons. Like I said, answer directly."

Rick nodded. "Omnia Vincit Veritas."

Stanton arched an eyebrow at him. "One can only hope. But all he has to do is establish reasonable doubt."

"Grossmann was there!"

"Ssh. Yeah. And there's DNA evidence. This is just hashing out the details, really."

Judge Morris was efficient and didn't suffer fools. She read the charges to the court "Albert Grossmann, you are charged with kidnapping, lying in wait, false imprisonment, rape fifteen counts, oral penetration five counts, aggravated assault, battery, sexual penetration with a foreign object..." and Grossmann pleaded "Not Guilty." Kayla's face had gone white, and she scoffed in disgust. Her attorney patted her hand, and her mother reached forward, a gentle hand on her shoulder, with tears streaming down her face.

Judge Morris gave the jury preliminary instructions. Kayla Twimbly was called as first witness, and the young woman walked up to the stand. Kayla swore in and sat down, glancing around the room nervously. At one point her eyes rested on Rick, and he attempted an encouraging smile, but he was fighting a panic attack all his own.

He knew what Vomero would probably bring up, the same things that ate him from the inside.

The property belonged to him. His account had paid for the dungeon. 3XK had assisted Grossmann in kidnapping Kayla, and it had become common knowledge that 3XK was Castle's brother. It was guilt by association, and as Kayla relayed her horrific experience, question by question, several eyes turned to Rick with disgust and contempt. How could this be going on right under his nose, without his knowledge and cooperation? _Really_? He was a goddamn mystery writer. He should have known. Had he never heard Kayla's cries from behind that steel door? Had he never checked the "break room" to see how it was coming along, how it was equipped? No, he hadn't. But the defense had receipts that indicated Rick's approval of a bed in the break room. He'd intended a couch for employees to relax on, or crash on if the night went too late. He hadn't intended it to become a scene for such depravity. But who cared? By the time Kayla was rescued, it was stained with every bodily fluid she had.

He tried to shake it off, focusing on Kayla. She'd been through worse, far worse than he, and there she sat, quiet and sure and so damned angry, glowering at Grossmann, who looked like an orange slowly being peeled, exposing a bitter white underbelly. She was speaking to Vomero. "I didn't see the people who kidnapped me, but I heard their voices. Grossmann's voice, another man, and a woman with some kind of Irish or Scottish accent."

"Did you get any names?" asked Vomero.

"One of them was called Kelly. I'm not sure whether it was the man or the woman."

"And Richard Castle wasn't present at your kidnapping?"

"Wha- no!" Kayla scowled at the attorney. "How can you say that?"

"You're sure?" He turned and pointed at Rick. "He's a big man. It would be easy to overpower you. Not true of Mr. Grossmann, here."

"Objection. Leading the witness," said Rayburn.

Jordan Shaw entered the room and sat next to Rick on the bench, politely but firmly squeezing her way in. She glanced at Rick and gave him a perky wink, and something in him relaxed a little. Maybe it would be okay.

The defense asked Kayla a few more questions about her rescue, and about her working with Castle and the FBI to make a false recording of him assaulting her, a few days later.

"And why did you make that recording, Ms. Twimbly? How could you go back to that supposed 'chamber of horrors' if it was so repugnant to you? Was it really so bad?" His voice dripped with false sympathy.

Kayla's eyes narrowed, her face red, her fist clenched. "It was a fucking nightmare!" she shouted. "I would do anything to bring those motherfuckers down."

"Including making a fake snuff film to lure your kidnappers in? Really?" He glanced over at Castle, then back to Kayla, and smirked, "Have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?"

The D.A., Rayburn, snapped, "Objection! Neither Mr. Castle nor Ms. Twimbly are on trial here, your Honor."

"Sustained," said Judge Morris.

"Or did the FBI and NYPD just use you and Mr. Grossmann for their own ends, to bring in the true kidnappers, without regard for either your safety or his innocence in these crimes?"

"Grossman held a gun to my head and made me blow him!" she cried. "There's nothing innocent about him."

"But you said the light was off..."

"It was, at first, the first few times, then he... I begged him to turn it on, I felt like I was going blind."

"So there's no chance he had, say, a..." he looked over at Castle again. "Silent partner?"

Next to him, Pemberton grumbled, "Perry Fuckin' Mason, here."

Rayburn said, "Objection" but before the judge could respond, Kayla snapped.

"NO! It was him. I could hear him, smell him, taste him, I know his skinny little..." her lips wrinkled in disgust. Her mother broke into sobs, and she stared over anxiously. "Mom, I'm so sorry..."

"Sustained," said Judge Morris. The look she gave the defense attorney a look that would curdle milk. "Mr. Vomero, you pull a stunt like that again and you'll be charged with contempt of court."

Judge Morris called a recess. Kayla's support party got her and her family into a side room to regroup.

* * *

Rick didn't take the time to phone Kate, but they did exchange texts:

RCB: _"Lunch break. Just kill me now."_  
KB: _"Vomero's a prick, huh?"_  
RCB: _"Yup. Miss u. Court's no fun without your eyes rolling all over the place."_  
KB:_ "How romantic. ;-)"_  
RCB: _"Will call when court's over. Florist next door has red roses set aside for Johanna."_  
KB: _"ILY! Don't stay too long cemetery. Snow tonight."_  
RCB: _"Gotcha. Need anything from store on way home?"_  
KB: _"Will send list. XO."_

Over his shoulder, Castle heard Esposito quietly cursing in Spanish. He looked back, and Espo was shaking his head, scowling. Karpowski leaned across Kayla's empty seat and punched the detective lightly in the arm. "Shut up, Javi."

Rick went over to Espo and Karpowski. Esposito said, "I wanna kill that bastard."

"Grossmann?"

"Okay, those bastards." They walked out together, careful not to discuss the case in front of the court staff and officers. They left the courthouse and found a souvlaki place around the corner for lunch. After ordering, they sat together.

Castle sighed. "Kayla's amazing."

Karpowski whispered, "I coached her to wear cheap mascara so it would smear when she cries."

"You knew they'd try to make her cry?"

"She told me she's a crier. I told her to use it to strengthen her case."

Castle and Esposito grinned. Karpowski flounced her shoulders. "Just workin' the system, Gentlemen. Now excuse me, I need to go powder my nose."

The two men waited till she was safely out of earshot, then Esposito whimpered, "Sometimes women scare me."

Rick nodded. "Sometimes everything scares me."

Esposito looked at the floor a second. "Sorry for teasing you about the popsicles, Bro," he said.

"It's all right. I'm working my way up. Had a soft-serve last week."

* * *

After lunch recess, and after a bit more questioning from both the prosecution and the defense, Kayla stepped down and went to her seat. They called the Old Haunt's daytime bartender, Arturo, to the stand, and the manager, Brian. Each testified that Castle had barely stopped in at the Old Haunt for several months before the wedding, and always in the company of Detective Beckett or Detectives Ryan and Esposito.

Vomero asked Arturo, "Did you know about the secret passageway before Mr. Grossmann's arrest?"

Arturo nodded. "Hell yeah. Everybody knew about it. The mayor had a fundraiser last year, they gave a tour... 'Champagne in the Sewers' or something."

"Catacombs," Rick breathed.

Ryan had not been called to testify, but Karpowski and Esposito each told a near-identical version of getting the word from Beckett that Castle _hypothesized_ Kayla was in the basement, and of Kayla's part in Grossmann's arrest, which Shaw's eventual testimony corroborated. Castle just sat there shaking, stewing in his own sweat, waiting to be called onto the stand.

His stomach in knots, he was glad he'd eaten a light lunch then shared a brief texting session with Kate (_"Back's still killing, cleaned out fridge, can u pickup some frozen mangoes &amp; chia seeds, just the white ones, not the black ones?"_). He swore in, and Vomero, the defense attorney, looked over at him with a smirk.

"Mr. Castle, how did you hire Mr. Grossmann?"

Castle gave it some thought. "We went through an agency. He had good references and seemed to know how to operate a calculator."

"What became of your previous bookkeeper, Mr. - Antonelli?

"He died suddenly. Hit his head in the shower."

"I see." Vomero gave a self-satisfied grin to the jury. "Convenient timing."

"Objection!" said Rayburn. "Your honor, Mr. Vomero continues to insinuate..."

"Sustained," said Judge Morris. She looked like someone battling a migraine. "Continue, Mr. Vomero, but remember this is your second warning."

"Sorry, Your Honor, it won't happen again." He fixed a beady gaze on Rick. "And you never had any trouble with Grossmann?"

"He was paid by the hour. It seemed to take him longer than our previous bookkeeper to get the job done. That's what awoke my suspicions, which led to his arrest."

"And how did he get … arrested?"

Castle cleared his throat. "I had a dream."

The defense attorney chuckled. "A dream. Please do elaborate, Mr. Castle."

Castle glanced over to find his attorney, Pemberton, in the act of face palming. He took a deep breath, thinking in the shorthand he and Kate had worked out when panic rose up in him: "_5 I see you, 4 I hear you, 3 I touch you, 2 I smell you, 1 I taste you." _Every moment was taking him closer back to her. He balled his fists tightly then relaxed them, trying to make his whole body follow suit.

Judge Morris said, "Please answer the question, Mr. Castle. I'm curious too."

"It was... more like a deduction."

Vomero sneered, "Like Sherlock Holmes?"

"Objection, your honor, the defense is baiting the witness."

"Sustained."

Castle paused, his mind suddenly blank with anxiety. He had no idea what to say, and what not to say. He'd already made twelve court appearances for Elise, Tiffany, and Kayla, plus a sanity assessment hearing for Dr. Kelly Nieman/ Rose Shaunessy, plus he'd gone to Ireland twice to give depositions and testify about what he'd experienced at Murphy's. This should be child's play, but for some reason, since this was on his home turf, he felt even more responsibility. That was what Michael had intended, and it worked to his detriment.

He looked around the room, and for some reason the court illustrator's face caught his eye. He didn't remember having seen her before, but she was drawing as he paused, and her eyes flickered back and forth between his face and her work. She gave him a small, encouraging nod-and-smile that spoke plainly: _"You've got this." _ He knew she was a fan, and somehow that little vote of support buoyed him.

"I don't really know how I knew, but I did occasionally look at the numbers and must have noticed some kind of discrepancy. I remember I'd consciously decided to put off talking to him till after the honeymoon. Which I still haven't really gone on."

"But you are not an accountant yourself."

"I can keep a checkbook. This wasn't much more complicated."

"And how did you hire Mr. Grossmann?"

"My previous bookkeeper died suddenly. I got a referral from an agency."

"What agency?"

"The same one my publisher uses."

"Your publisher being your ex-wife, Gina Cowell Griffin?"

"Yes."

"Why did she drop the name 'Castle'"?

Stanton spoke up. "Immaterial."

The judge frowned at Stanton. "Objection overruled."

Rick could see where this was going. "Gina never took my name in the first place for professional reasons since Black Pawn wanted to avoid the appearance of nepotism. And Gina has nothing to do with this. Black Pawn's a big company. She has a lot of assistants. It could have been any number of..." he paused, and shot a startled gaze at Esposito, building theory out loud, right there in the courtroom for everyone to see, and the only thing missing was Kate's shining eyes. "Hormel. The guy who gave her … Hormel had just been hired at Black Pawn. He came from an agency. Elvis Hormel is the one who referred Grossmann, said he met him in the reception area... holy shit. Hormel had access to the kitchen at Krimby Psychiatric. He made friends with the cook..."

Judge Morris banged her gavel. "MR. CASTLE."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor, it's just... He's the guy. He poisoned Nieman."

"The Salisbury Steak." Esposito was up and out of his seat, on the radio and talking before the bailiff could get the door open.

The Judge said, "In the light of new information, court is adjourned until 9 a.m. Monday morning."

Castle stood up and started after Esposito.

"Not so fast, Mr. Castle," said Judge Morris. She peered at him through her bifocals.

"Yes, Sir... I mean, your Honor."

The Judge huffed. "_Sir_?"

"I work with Captain Gates." He cringed apologetically. "Force of habit."

Judge Morris snorted. "Right. She can be such a pain in the tush. Hey, how's that wife of yours doing?"

"Kate? She's, she's fine."

"And when's she due?"

"Around Ground Hog Day. We're not exactly certain."

"Can I see a picture?"

"A picture?"

"On your phone. Any recent pictures of your wife?"

"You know Kate Beckett?"

"Sure. She's testified at a lot of my trials, it's just you and I who haven't crossed paths before. She's a good woman."

Castle thumbed through photos on his phone, then held it up, smiling proudly. "Here. This is Kate at the baby shower Saturday." It had been a no-presents baby shower: either make something by hand or the gift gets donated to the women's shelter. People mostly gave cash. They'd raised $1,223 for Middletown Women's Shelter.

Judge Morris took the phone. "Mmmhm."

"What?"

"Got any other angles?"

Castle blushed. "Well, none recent that I should show you. You know."

Judge Morris chuckled. "Ah. First Pregnancy Naked Pictures?"

He nodded.

"You download those before you lose your phone. She'll never let you take another one after this baby's born."

Rick smirked. "You're in the pool, aren't you."

The judge raised her brows and pressed hands to her chest, the picture of innocense. "Pool?"

"You know. The entire Twelfth is in on it, the Mayor's in on it, Markway's in on it..."

She laughed and raised her hands. "Guilty as charged."

"So what are you guessing?"

"After four babies, I'd say you should break some speed limits getting home, Mr. Castle. The baby's dropped."

He felt all the blood drain out of his face. "What? She's only eight months. We think."

"Oh, you poor thing, I'm just kidding. It's only January 9th. But I give her a few days at most."

Castle laughed weakly. "Whew. You had me going."

"I really shouldn't tease. See you at nine on Monday for cross examination, Mr. Castle. It'll be a piece of cake."

"Okay." He wandered out of her chambers in a daze and continued out into the courthouse's central hall, gazed up at the dome, and saw a shadow of cloud pass over the clerestory windows.

Back in her chambers, Judge Morris made a phone call. "Hey Victoria. Letty here. I'm good, good. Did Detective Esposito contact you yet? Good." She took off her robe and hung it in her closet. "Castle? He's a very interesting man. More insight than one might expect." She got her purse out of her desk and picked up her travel mug. "No, adjourned until Monday. Hey, I was wondering if anyone's picked January 9 as a birth date on Detective Beckett's pool. Yes, today. No? Can you put me down? Inside information? No, of course not. Just a guess. I haven't seen Detective Beckett since August or so. Really, it's just a hunch... Well, right now I'm gonna pick up a pile of Chinese and get myself home before that snow hits, it's gonna be a whopper. Have a nice weekend. Yes. You too. Bye!"

* * *

•  
**Beckett's Castle, 9 a.m.**

Kate paced around for a while, then made herself a balanced breakfast and some ginger tea. While she ate, she went online to shop for birth announcements (which of course couldn't actually be printed until the baby had been born and named) and searched, again, for nursing bras that didn't look like they'd been issued by the Angry Nuns' League for Feminine Decency.

She had her choice of black, white, and nude. She rolled her eyes. "Ugh. No fun whatsoever."

She was anxious to do some cleaning. They were planning for a home birth whether in Manhattan or at the Castle, probably in a big rented birthing tub, and they already had a midwife, Rachel, and a doula, Summer. Dr. Locatelli, who had stitched Rick's ear up back in late June, had become a favorite physician and was glad to make house calls for a price. He'd delivered quite a few babies for Sal's relatives and, uh, friends. So when it came time for Small to arrive, they wouldn't have to go anywhere unless there was a real emergency. Kate sighed. "Everything's gonna be fine. It's often safer for a healthy woman to give birth at home than in a hospital. Fewer germs. Less chance of a mixup..." She breathed her way through a few Braxton-hicks contractions. "These are just my uterus practicing," she told herself. Small kicked her a couple of times, once quite hard in the ribs. "Settle down, kid!" she laughed, and patted her belly ruefully. "Ow."

After lunch she ran the dishwasher, vacuumed the entire upstairs, took a shower, blow-dried her hair, and fell asleep on the bed when she got tired out by trying to put her socks on. The nap didn't last long. She just couldn't get comfortable. Eventually she used the bathroom, dressed in the least hideous thing she could fit into, made herself a quick snack even though she wasn't hungry, and bundled up to take Betsy for a walk. At the door, she stopped and had to run to the bathroom again.

* * *

**January 9, 2015, 3:15 p.m. Beckett's Castle**

Kate took the leash down. Betsy just hunkered down on the mat and gave her the Withering Stare of _"You Will Have to Drag Me."_

Kate said, "Oh, come on, don't look so... hangdog. Walkies?" She pitched her voice into a high croon and jingled the clip. "Betsy loves Walkies, don't you, Girl?"

Betsy just sighed. _"You don't know what you're asking of me." _

Resorting to her Cop Voice, Kate said, "Betsy. Up. Now." She put Betsy in her pannier harness for hiking, clipped the leash, grabbed her phone and keys, then they went outside into the bright, low-hanging sunshine.

It wasn't that cold yet, but Kate glanced anxiously at the sky. So far there were only a few light, icy clouds high above. "Come on, Girl. Rick says we need to get out of the house, and I think he's right." They went up the drive, and Betsy started right, downhill toward Matt and Chloe's house. But they were out of town during the post-holiday doldrums, visiting Chloe's family in Florida. There was a caretaker checking in on the animals three times a day, but Kate didn't know her socially. So she turned left instead, walking slowly up the hill, Betsy at her side, but obviously reluctant. "Betsy, heel."

Obedience training overcame the dog's screaming instincts, and she paced Kate, who gave her a treat and clipped on again. Kate had to pause often to take extra breaths. She'd done three miles a day on their home treadmill, but being outside and climbing into cold, thinning air isn't quite the same. She puffed, "It will feel so good to go back downhill, won't it?"

"_Mulf wrroo."_ Betsy agreed. It was the best idea Kate had had all day.

The gentle slope uphill seemed almost absurdly daunting, especially in the hollow where the evergreen trees hunched over the road, crowding out the thin sunlight. She found herself thinking the silliest thoughts, about the Blair Witch project and hungry bears awoken from hibernation and _"What if there's a tsunami and we get stuck at the house without food..."_ She pulled in the leash, and Betsy said "Woorrrghlualuh" and nudged her gloved hand gently. They'd gone about 1/2 mile in twenty minutes when Kate decided to stop and stretch. "Man," Kate said. "My back is killing me." She let go of the leash to stretch. "Stay, Betsy." The ground was cold and muddy, with lingering ice in the shadow of the mountain, so she didn't go so far as to make Betsy sit. Kate stretched up to the sky, straightening her spine, then spread her arms like wings, opening up her pecs.

Her bag of waters broke.

•


	65. Chapter 65

_It really wouldn't be fair to publish a cliff-hanger after you've waited so long, so I just wrote this as a long chapter &amp; split it in half. Thanks for hanging in there._

* * *

****

**TooSoon Chapter 62 – Bucket List**

**January 9, 2015, 3:25 p.m., County Courthouse  
**Rick paged the parking valet, and as he hurried out of the courthouse, the red Ferrari was there to meet him. He picked up Johanna's roses from the florist and texted Kate with a photo. She didn't reply.

RC: _"Guess you're napping. Will call from cemetery."_

**January 9, 2015, 3:15 p.m., The Old Road**

Kate felt a strange, collapsing sensation inside, and Small, whose world had been feeling too snug already, gave his mother another mighty kick in the ribs. Liquid gushed into Kate's panties and leached rapidly down the inside of her winter leggings. She gasped. Betsy licked her chops at the salty smell, and did the Dance Of _"I Told You it was Not a Good Time for Walkies but Did You Listen? Noooo." _

"Oh, holy _shit_," Kate cried. She whipped out her phone. No signal. "Shit." She looked across the Hudson Valley where Manhattan lay out of sight, hidden by the hulking slope of Bear Mountain to her southeast. Rick was in a courthouse, likely with his phone turned off, possibly testifying. And after that, he intended to go to Johanna's grave and lay flowers down.

He wasn't gonna be home for _hours_. Probably after dark. "We gotta get home, girl," she said.

She started walking back, taking it slowly, realizing with horror that the "Braxton Hicks" contractions she'd felt that morning had turned into the real thing. She timed them on her father's watch. Five minutes apart. They became more intense as she went along, stopping to lean against tree trunks or boulders for support. Four minutes. Stop and rest and contract and breathe. Three-twenty. Stop. Rest. Contract. Breathe.

She was about halfway back to the house when she nearly collapsed. Her body felt like a giant fist, squeezing in on itself. "Oh, God, I can't do this here!" she groaned. Inside, Small kicked and twisted, and she vomited when he thrust a limb into her stomach. (She hoped it was his foot and that he was still head-down.) Betsy peered down at the puddle of half-digested crackers on the ground, and then looked up at Kate in concern. "You _cannot eat that," _Kate said. Betsy had cleaned up Nuwwar's baby-barf more than once, but she could see Kate's trepidation, and restrained herself. She watched Kate closely, waiting for her chance, looking for all the world like she was going to run and boil hot water.

Kate pleaded with the universe. "Please, Small-Boy, not yet! It's too soon!" Small could hear her, but at this point there was no stopping him, even if he had understood her words. He was bored with the soft red light and the muffled voices and the sameness of _rock-rock-rock, sleep, rock, rock, rock, sleep. _But he felt completely ready for... whatever it was, out there.

Small felt his world squeeze tightly around him again, and he nudged with his head, finding a place that allowed him to push down. Sensing an escape opportunity, he dove. Kate cried out and fell to her knees in the mud, and a sharp piece of gravel dug into her shin. "FUCK."

She and Rick had done their research and had completed their Bradley Partner-Assisted Childbirth Classes. He'd seen enough blood and death that neither of them had any fear whatever of his freaking out in the delivery room. His greatest worry had been exactly this: that Kate would go into labor when he was stuck in court. Neither of them had considered the possibility of her being outside, alone, in the snow. (Although, really, anybody who knew them could have guessed that something like this would happen. At least she wasn't tied to a railroad track and covered with bees.)

At their weekly classes, they had watched at least twenty birth videos, everything from a Peruvian woman squatting on a mat to give birth unassisted, to water births and silent births and everyone-in-the-family there births and midwife births. They had all been fascinating, beautiful, slightly terrifying, but seeing the gamut and practicing the positions and exercises had left them reasonably confident that they could get Kate through childbirth at home, without medication, unless complications arose. Rick had been so excited, so enthusiastic to be there and support her. He, the midwife, the doula, Dr. Locatelli, Alexis, Martha, Jenny, and Lanie were all on her speed dial.

And her phone wasn't working, and she was twenty minutes' walk from home. Maybe fifteen minutes from being unable to move any further.

At this moment, Kate was simply at the "terrifying" part. She looked at Betsy desperately. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. "I can't do this."

Betsy came close and gave Kate the Lean of _"I know, Honey, I know." _She could smell everything Kate was going through. She licked Kate's face, and waited until Kate had breathed through the next contraction. Kate's sense of smell was going absolutely crazy, and Betsy's normally reasonable dog-breath smelled like she'd eaten a zombie skunk with halitosis.

Betsy stood up, and gave Kate support as she staggered to her own feet and waddled a few more steps down the road. "AUGHH!" Kate cried. She glared around, gritting her teeth, desperate. "So much mud."

Hunched over, she waddled to a large, somewhat flat boulder at the roadside. It was covered with a few inches of snow. Kate gave Betsy a stern look and set the leash down. "Betsy, you stay. STAY."

Betsy sat in a relatively dry patch of gravel, waiting. Kate swept the snow off with her arm and clambered onto the boulders's lichen-laced surface, the cleanest thing she could find. She took off her filthy gloves, beckoned Betsy to her, and dug through the pannier, finding the little kit Rick kept in there for hiking: sunscreen, mosquito repellent, wipes...

"WIPES! Oh, thank you, God!" (Rick's little voice in her head smirked, _"Don't thank God, thank me._")

... and tweezers and a whistle and a signal mirror and a compass and … dental floss? And a jackknife with little scissors. And a flashlight and a yellow copy of the "Worst Case Scenario Handbook" - "Ha! Childbirth in a taxicab? I'd kill for a taxicab right now." And a notebook and a pencil. And 1/3 of a bottle of water that had been sitting in there for who-knows-how-long, but all in all, it was better than the best Christmas stocking she'd ever received.

Kate scrawled a hasty note.

_EMERGENCY  
January 9 3:50 p.m. _

_My name is Kate Beckett. I am giving premature birth on the old road in the open space above Blueberry Hill Farm near West Ridge Slide. Ask this dog, "Where's Kate?" and I hope she'll bring you right to me. Call 911. Pls hurry thank you!"  
She paused and squeezed "I love you Rick!" in the margin. Just in case.  
_

She took the note and wrapped it around Betsy's collar with "Emergency!" showing prominently, and tied it on with a short length of dental floss. Then she breathed her way through another contraction. "Get help, Betsy." She released Betsy's leash from the harness, and repeated, "Betsy, get help. Go. Get help."

Betsy barked. _Finally! _She took off like a rocket , not even bothering with the switchbacks, road, trundling down the hill toward the gate.

Kate could only pray that Betsy hadn't scented a raccoon or something.

She drank a few sips of the water, enough to moisten her parched throat. Then she lay on her side on the icy rock, her head pillowed on her arm, and timed the contractions, trying to rest in between. They had settled into a steady rhythm of about three minutes apart, between 45 seconds and a minute apiece. Too close. Too long. She'd heard of women having babies after a 90-minute labor, others whose labor had gone on for two or three days, and she imagined there was any amount of flexibility in between. But she had come to realize, to her horror, that the back pain she'd been feeling wasn't from wearing heels all day previously, but from labor since early that morning. What had her instructor said? "The contractions come in a wave. You have to ride it. When you feel like you just can't do it anymore, your turning point will come soon after."

If feeling as if she was being dragged down an up escalator by her vulva was any indication, she wasn't going to be in labor much longer.

* * *

•  
**Manhattan Memorial Cemetery, 3:50 p.m.**

He took the roses to Johanna's grave and laid them there in the shadow of her headstone, next to another bouquet that had probably been left by Jim earlier in the day. There was very little snow here now, but from the look of the sky, the roses would be buried by morning. Rick snapped a photo of the flowers, vivid against the dark stone and dormant, muddy grass. He sent the photo to Kate, but she didn't respond. He called. She didn't pick up, although he called repeatedly the entire way out of the city. On the highway, he drove like an utter asshole even though it only bought him a few car lengths.

"I think my wife might be in labor," is apparently not enough to get you out of a $450 speeding ticket.

* * *

•

**4:15 p.m.**  
Lying on her side on the big slab of granite, Kate started to wonder if she should try to push the baby out, but somehow it didn't feel like time. Her mouth was dry from panting in the cold air. She took a blob of clean snow, hoping some varmint hadn't peed on it, and put a little in her mouth to wet her tongue. It was getting harder and harder to stay focused. She took out the note pad and started writing out whatever times she could remember. She wondered whether she should take her pants down before the baby's head crowned. She wondered if she should try to make one last waddle for home, and she eased herself off the side of her boulder. Standing upright, she found that gravity was speeding things along even worse than before. She decided to climb back on, but had to lie back and roll herself, legs flailing wildly in the air, which made her hip tendons stretch agonizingly.

"Aww, fuck," she sobbed. "fuck, fuck, fuck."

She looked up at the sky, now grown cloudy and dim. A pair of crows flapped by overhead, hoping she might have a pocket full of treats to toss up, as her husband sometimes did. Kate worried... "Crows go for dead bodies, like vultures, right? Maybe they're just waiting for me to die. I'm gonna die. Right here, and Castle's gonna find me like this..." she started crying, thinking of poor Rick having to deal with his dead wife and dead tiny baby, and then she screamed, "Well, BACK OFF, crows!"

They kept flying on. The Mr. looked over at the Mrs. and said, _"What the hell is all that about?"_

_"Who knows? Maybe she's eggbound,"_ said the Missus. Rick liked crows and he'd started leaving peanuts out for them on the broken birdbath that jutted out of the oak tree. He and Beckett had ceremoniously planted their two acorns, twelve feet apart, and put wire mesh around them to prevent critters from digging them up. So far the acorns showed no sign of having sprouted, but it was still winter.

The crows flew down and checked the birdbath. Only a couple of nuts left. The jays had gotten there first. They heard a distant rumble, and Mrs. Crow said, _"Oh, good, that's him in the Red Rumbler now."_ That's what they called Castle's Ferrari. _"You think he brought peanuts?"_

They flapped over to perch in the naked white birch tree by the front path. The Dog was in the Red Rumbler, panting anxiously. The man – Rick – got out of the car and ran to the house, throwing the door open wide. "Kate? _KATE?"_ He ran in, they heard his footsteps, he ran back out again and spoke to the dog, who was sitting in the car's passenger seat, looking at him as if he were a complete idiot.

"Where is she, Bets? Where's Kate?"

Betsy grinned at him. _"Where we're going, we won't need roads!" _In full faith that he'd follow along, she leaped out and hurtled up the road, faster than he could run, then she left it altogether to plunge uphill between one switchback and another, baying all the way. Rick jumped into the Ferrari and gunned it up the hill, which doesn't work out so well when a fine European sportscar has the ground clearance of an overfed marmot. At the first hairpin, it broke through into a puddle, and he heard the axle snap as the ass end of the car skidded. "Damn it!" he fumed. He got out and grabbed his blizzard kit from the trunk (everyone who commutes should really have one. You know how it goes, heading upstate on a Friday). A small throw, a space blanket, a couple bottles of water, granola bars, a paperback novel, chewing gum, condoms... the condoms were really old.

He didn't plan to replace those anytime soon.

* * *

Kate rolled onto her side, worried that the baby would press on her vena cava and interrupt blood flow, and lay there sweating and shivering, alternating between things like "You can do this. You can do it, Kate. Breathe. Relax and breathe." and... "Castle, why did I talk you into staying here instead of going back to the city? I was out of my fucking mind! We're both insane!" If she were in Manhattan, none of this would be an issue; even without a phone she could have lobbed a vase through a window and screamed until help came. But in labor, she wasn't supposed to scream, she was supposed to breathe. She lay, riding the wave, watching the cold, gray, cloudy water crash over her head, looking for a surfboard or a dolphin or something to pull her back to the surface, but she was drowning in pain. All she could hear was the distant rumble of an engine-maybe it was a lifeguard on a jet-ski -and the faint barking of a seal. Sea lion. Whatever.

She imagined a sound in the distance like the honking of geese or the ringing of bells, maybe the baying of a hound. She whispered, "Mom, I really wish you were with me right now." But there was no answer.

Another contraction swept over her. This one seemed never-ending, and again she wanted to scream. So much pain. So unfair. She was going to die here, alone, and the baby would die too, and Castle would find them, and it would destroy him. She held on through a wave of dizziness. So much she wanted to do: send out birth announcements, take him to his first checkup, see his first Halloween costume (a pumpkin like Alexis?), first steps, his first day of kindergarten, his first bike ride. She clung to that, her bucket list of all the things she wanted for Small, for Castle, for the three of them in their life together, a family.

She had thought before, that she knew what it was like to lose everything. She murmured, "I had no idea."

* * *

**Someplace Sort of Pink, 4:20 P.M.**

Small found himself in an awkward position. How had he gotten someplace even more constricting than he'd been in before? He tried to go back and heard his mother moan in agony, and her body squeezed around him, pushing him further into the tight misery of in-between. Apparently the only way out was through. He pushed with his feet, his poor little face compressed, but still getting plenty of oxygen from his umbilical cord. He had no idea what he was in for, but this was pretty damn awful so far. Words failed him. But that's just how it is for babies.

* * *

**The Old road, 4:26 p.m.**

Eyes closed, afraid the pain would find her again and turn her inside out, Kate tried to be still between contractions, and hide somehow from the cold and fear. She found herself in a sort of dream state, and a deep voice was speaking to her. "Now remember, Beckett. No screaming. Round Tones. Keep your voice loowwwww. Like a cow. Or a whale." She and Rick had practiced, and even had a mooing contest. He'd won, or so he claimed.

She imagined footsteps approaching fast, someone rubbing her back, a strong hand rolling her shoulder, Rick's warm hand pillowing her head, and he was there. "Kate? Kate, please!" He was breathless and sweating from running up the hill, but it was him. She opened her eyes and blinked through white frost on her lashes.

She smiled, uncomprehending. "You came?"

"Always." He was beaming through joyous, terrified tears, a few snowflakes in his hair, his head haloed by white sky and black tree branches radiating like electrical current. "When I saw you... oh, God, I thought I was too late."

She couldn't get her voice to work properly, slurring, "It's not dark. You're early."

He leaned over, just held her close, understanding the fear she must have felt alone. He was still scared, they both were. But she could do anything if he was there. He was so warm and she curled close to him. "You're early too," he chuckled softly.

"How.. Oh, god, no, here comes another oneaaaaaAAAAGHGHH!"

She shoved her face against his chest and he held her close, astonished by the massive strength her body was mustering. "Wow." He rubbed her back and butt, trying to warm her and wishing he could just take the pain on for her. "You're amazing, Kate."

She whimpered, "I cannot believe how much this hurts. Humanity should have died out. Stupid big heads."

"You didn't answer your phone. I got worried."

"How did you find me?" She closed her eyes, squeezed them tight, and the white sky became black with white lines crackling through, and the afterimage of Rick's face glowing in the darkness. "You're an angel."

"Betsy went down to the highway and there she was at the offramp. It nearly gave me a heart attack."

Kate felt another contraction coming. "Good dog," she gritted, and squeezed his hand.

He just squeezed back, figuring that if her body hurt anywhere near as badly as her crushing grip... yikes.

When her contraction faded, he said, "Wish I could carry you but I'm afraid I might slip and drop you."

She shook her head. "Too heavy. Contractions are too strong."

"Think I can help you walk back to the house?"

"When I stood up he practically fell out. I don't wanna move."

Her husband looked around at the cold landscape and blew out fear. "So we stay." He nodded stiffly and swallowed, scared out of his mind. "I called 911, they'll be here soon but they'll have to get past the Ferrari. I broke an axle when I drove it off the road above the house."

"Pot-hole?" she gasped, as another contraction began to build.

"Yeah. Black ice. Breathe, Kate."

"Ambulance? Oh, nooooooo." she tried doing the stupid little panting thing. She hated it.

He held her through it. "You are amazing. You're doing great. You're doing great, Beckett. How long have you been in labor?"

"All day," she said. "I think..."

"Really?" he squeaked.

"I just thought it was a sore back from those boots. My water broke at... at... here we goooooOOOOOooaaahaahh. God this hurts."

She sloppily handed him the notebook and he looked at the progression of her labor over the past hour. He wrote down the start time and duration of this latest contraction. It didn't look like the ambulance would make it on time.

Her eyes went wide. "I want to push, Castle, I need to push. Now."

"Wait, wait. Please. I'll put my coat down."

She nodded, and rode the next contraction like a charging bull elephant. "Ohhhh, myyyyygodddddd."

When it was done, Castle helped her down to lean against the rock, and she clung to it, trying to catch her breath. He opened up the space blanket and laid it on the rock. Its metallic surface gleamed weirdly in the twilight. Then he doffed his $800 wool Armani coat and laid it atop that for warmth and padding. He helped Kate back up to sit on its warm satin lining, then said, "I'm gonna cut your leggings, unless you want to take them down."

"I don't want them in my way," she shook her head. "Hurry."

He tried the stupid little scissors but they barely made a dent. "Hold the band away from your waist. Far as you can."

"What waist?" she cried. "AAAGHHH"

"Breathe."

"YOU AND YOUR GODDAMN GIANT HEAD!" she shrieked.

"Yes, it's huge and the baby's probably feels like a basketball and I'm so sorry. SO sorry, Kate, SO sorry. Breathe. Remember, low voice. Moo like a whale."

She lay on her side, holding the leggings' crotch taut as he reached inside and sliced carefully out, through the stretchy fabric, with the jackknife.

She moaned, "I hate you right now. Oh, no, here it... mmmmaaaaaaggghhhhhoOooooooooooah."

"I understand. It's okay." They waited through the contraction, then he cut her panties off. They were soaked. "God, you must be freezing."

"I smell ocean..." she whimpered. "Oh, my god. Burns!" He looked between her legs.

"I can see his head, Kate! You're crowning!"

"Mirrorohfuuuuck that burns fuck!"

He held up the tiny unbreakable signal mirror and she snatched it from him, turning it to the correct angle. "Oh, I see him!" She burst into tears again. "I see him, I see him, oh, MAN that burns!" Her body contracted in on itself. "Wanna push!"

"I guess so, right? You can get up and squat if you like, or we can do the crossover."

"Yeah. Oh, God. What if he gets stuck? I can't do this, I can't, I..."

"Sure you can. Your mom did it, my mom did it..." Rick helped her into a squat, then cleaned both their hands with a couple of wipes. He stood leaning his upper thighs against the boulder, she crossed her arms and he held her hands. When the contraction overcame her again, she started pushing, groaning with intense effort.

"THEY HAD DRUGS AND A BED. MMMooooooooaughhghg."

"Good, Kate. Good. You're fine. Breathe."

They heard a siren in the distance, growing closer. "Hear that? That's our search and rescue coming." He looked around. "Hey, why didn't you use the walkie talkie?"

"What walkie talkie?"

"The one in Betsy's... oh, wait, the other end's at Matt's. Nobody's home anyway."

"Right. You are an idio...oOOOHHHHhhhhhhhhhh. Hhungh. Fuuuuuuuck we are never having sex again."

"Whatever you like. Whatever you need. It's okay."

"IT IS NOT OHHHHHH..."

"Low voice, Kate. Moo. MmmmmoooooOOOooo." He stopped suddenly, and practically squeaked. "Kate! Kate look, his head's out, and what do they call that? Sunny side up? Oh, my god. You see him? He's facing up!'

She grabbed Rick's shoulders with all her strength - and there wasn't much left of it - and he reached down to support the baby's skull. A little amniotic membrane was hung up over Small's face, but Rick wiped it away, and the baby blinked up at him in dim wonder and yawned.

"Did you see that? He yawned at me, Beckett!" Rick was half laughing, half-crying. "He has your eyes!"

"Catch his head. Catch his head, I'm gonna... AAAAAUUGHGHHH! CAASSSTLLLLLLE!"

"I have him, I have him!"

Kate's short nails dug viciously into Rick's biceps but nothing could have stopped him from holding on to that baby. "Here's the shoulder, one more push, Kate!"

He beamed at her, so in love, and now that the baby's head was through her opening, it was suddenly much more bearable again. She had never felt more exhausted or more excited, particularly not at the same time.

"One more?" she whimpered.

"I think so," Rick said gently. "Maybe two, but he's slippery. So... ready? Whoa, I guess you are! Haha!"

She gave one last push, and Small was safely cradled in Rick's hands. The baby's back arched and limbs splayed out in a startle reflex, then he curled into himself with a soft cry, shocked by the cold. He was pink with exertion and splotched with white goo, the vernix that protects the skin and helps lubricate the birth process.

"It's okay, little guy. We'll get you warm." Rick immediately held the baby close to his chest, unconcerned about the destruction of his shirt, and wrapped him with the soft throw from the car. Kate collapsed sideways into a heap, and once she was settled, Rick handed the baby straight to her to tuck under her soft knit maternity tunic, next to her skin. He took his suit jacket off for good measure and draped it over the mother and child. The new parents both wept without even noticing it, and the baby let out a high, strong wail.

Rick said, "I don't wanna leave you, but I need to go back down and bring Search and Rescue up here." He leaned down to kiss her cheek. She reached up and got a tight, pinching hold on the shell of his ear. He yelped.

She growled, "If you leave me here alone, I will hunt you down and shoot you."

"Oh." he swallowed. "Okay! Mama bear, then. No fatherless cubs here. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

She let go. "Don't you dare," she said softly, then in a lower whisper, "_I was so scared._"

He nodded and crouched by the rock, at a painful and awkward angle so that he could pillow her head on his arm. "I should have been here."

"You were here when it really mattered. I don't know how you do it."

"Always the story," he chuckled. From his point of view, her shirt had developed a life of its own due the tiny wiggling bundle underneath. The baby was making rooty, snuffling noises.

"I think he's hungry," she said anxiously. "Could you undo my bra in back?"

"Of course. It's one of my 'best tricks."

It turned out to be a challenge. He couldn't get it through her thick winter jacket, but he reached up underneath her blouse, and she jumped. "Cold!"

"Sorry!" The bra unhooked, Kate clumsily got the cups out of the baby's way as best she could, and Small latched on, sucking a great deal harder than she'd ever experienced even in the fiercest lovemaking. Her expression fell. "Omigod, this is like having my brains pulled out through my tatas!"

"Maybe he's at the wrong angle, are you supporting his head?"

"_Yes_, I am supporting his head!" she snapped.

She rolled over onto her back, with her knees up, and sighed. "That's better." The delivery pain had subsided to relatively mild cramping. "Funny," she said. "I was sort of afraid it would feel sexy, but it doesn't, it's just... odd."

Rick said, "Meredith insisted on bottle feeding, so," he shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I do know she leaked for a few weeks. Drove her crazy. It was worse when she held Alexis, so I did most of the feeding." He hesitated. "Can I see?"

She nodded, surprised at the sudden bashfulness in this very nosy man. He bent and peeked under the layers of his suit, her jacket, and the neckline of her sweater. The baby had changed the angle of his head slightly, and now he was nursing steadily, snuffling but apparently happy. One little fist flailed in a random way, and occasionally the tiny, adorable feet kicked out as if he was trying to swim. He was early, he was perfect, he was... Small. But all things considered, given that he'd come a little too soon, he was fine.

And he really, really liked milk.

Kate smiled at him. "He smells _amazing_."

Rick nodded. "Welcome to the ambrosial aroma of Baby Head Smell," he grinned. "Nothing like it."

He slipped his arm under Kate's head again. She moaned gratefully. "You're so good to me."

"You'll like me better when I bring you some warm slippers and a strawberry milkshake."

"I'm too fat for strawberry milkshakes."

"Ha! You? A sylph." _Change the subject, you idiot!_ "Hey, what do you want to name him?"

"I was thinking about that," she said, smiling shyly. In truth they'd argued back and forth about what they'd name a baby ever since they babysat that first time. 'Cosmo' was definitely out of the running. "He was born on a rock, so how about Peter?"

"Peter Rodgers Beckett? I like that."

She smiled at him. "You're sure you want to drop the "Castle"?

"I'm ready."

He could see she had a lump in her throat. She said, "You'll always be Castle to me. My refuge?"

"Always," he whispered.

They had their word back.

He paused, listening. He could hear the squawk of radios echoing up the hill through the rocks and trees, and the joyful, approaching bay of Betsy, who knew the sound of a Search and Rescue team when she heard it and had gone down to do the Song And Dance Of _"Guess What Betsy Found!?"_

Kate said, "Here they come. Just in time for the snowstorm."

"What did the note say?"

"You didn't read it?"

"No time. But I had a good guess."

"Maybe they'll read it. Down the hill. Hey, can you cover my butt? It's … um. Kinda bare." She grimaced. "We don't have a sterile blade, so let's wait to cut the cord."

Rick nodded. There had been some debate about that – save the cord blood? Wait till it stops pulsing? Cut earlier to prevent jaundice or later to prevent anemia? But it was all decided for them. He tucked the coat up around her bottom just in time for her to have another contraction, this time brought on by the nursing, and then the placenta gushed out.

He smiled ruefully, not quite prepared even though he'd known it was coming. "Best use for an $800 coat, ever."

The Search and Rescue team drove up the hill a few minutes later: an SUV with a battering ram and an ambulance, following the proud and joyful Betsy. They looked a little crestfallen that they'd missed out on the fun part, and also worried about the baby getting hypothermia, or infection in either mother or child. So they cut the cord and bundled Kate and her little one into the warm ambulance with all due speed, and cleaned them up, readying to get them to the hospital. They didn't have a diaper, so Rick pulled out a clean handkerchief. Small was so tiny that, folded into a triangle and knotted around his tiny waist, it fit perfectly.

The SUV driver, Officer Davis, drove Rick and Betsy back down the hill to their house. On their way they passed the Ferrari.

Officer Davis said, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Castle. Broke my heart to do that, but we had to get by." Davis had used the front rack to shove the Ferrari off the road. "Momentum got the best of her." The Ferrari's side was bashed in, and it was halfway down the embankment. Rick looked down on the totaled sports car. He was smiling broadly, and reached into Betsy's pannier to give her a liver treat as she stuck her head out the window and panted freezing drool down the side of the SUV.

"Bucket list, Betsy. We wrecked a Ferrari." 

Two weeks later, about 200 people received a new baby announcement by snail mail. It was a tasteful powder blue with white ink, and they had created a customized font based on Kate's neat printing. There was a photo of deliriously happy Rick and exhausted but glowing Kate, sitting in a sunny window seat, with Alexis at Rick's side and a tiny, wise-eyed bundle in Kate's arms:

_Kate, Rick, and Alexis Welcome to Our Family: _  
_Peter Rodgers Beckett_  
__Born At Home, More Or Less  
_January 9, 2015_  
_4:47 p.m.  
Not A Moment Too Soon_

_5 lbs 3 oz, 20"_  
_Likes: Milk, Cuddling, Lullabies, Dogs_  
_Dislikes: Being Cold, Diaper Changes, Sirens_

•

* * *

A/N writing this made me want to call my mom and thank her.


	66. Chapter 66: Signal Boost

_We're coming up to present day now, and I hope you'll bear with certain Season-8 aspects of the tale. I promise it will resolve itself with all due speed, so please stay with me._

* * *

**Signal Boost**

**Beckett Apartment, Upper West Side, September 201****6, ****2:12 p.m.**

Rick had been writing when the security guard rang. "A Mrs. Montgomery here to see you," he said.

Rick was expecting an interviewee for a part-time nanny position, but this name wasn't on his list. The face he saw through the peephole surprised him: Evelyn Montgomery, the Captain's widow. He opened the door with an uncertain smile. He hadn't seen her since the wedding reception at the farm, when he'd had no time to say anything more than,_ "Thank you so much for coming. I can't believe how much the girls have grown!" _

Her smile was just as uncertain. She glanced over her shoulder nervously. He knew that gesture in his bones, threw the door wide in concern, and ushered her in quickly, then checked the hall to see whether she was being followed. "Evelyn. It's good to see you. Come in!"

"Thank you," she said. Despite the warmth of early autumn, she was wearing a scarf over her hair, and had sunglasses tucked into her high coat collar, and wore gloves. She clutched her black leather purse close to her side, looked around the apartment nervously, went to the window, glanced out at the street and up the fire escape, rotated the blinds closed.

"Would you like..."

"I need to show you something," she said.

Rick poured her some water anyway. "You want to sit down?" She looked like she needed to.

"No. Yes. Is Det- is Kate home?" She set her purse on the kitchen island table and rummaged through it, hands shaking, and from the zippered compartment brought forth a sealed plastic bag, containing a few pages of yellowish-white office paper, folded into quarters.

"She's down at the Twelfth. Gates has decided to stay on, so Kate's consulting now, just part time. She'll be starting law school next week." He beamed with pride.

"That's good. Good," Evelyn said, sipping water. "Thank you." She said, "Do you have any gloves? For dishes, that kind of thing?"

He kept a box of disposable nitriles under the sink for big messes. He nodded, fished around, put them on.

She handed him the packet.

He said, "Is this something you really want me to see?"

"Yes. Just so you know what _not_ to do."

"Okay... I guess this includes 'no fingerprints'."

She nodded. "Roy... I know he didn't tell me everything. And I didn't ask. But I know... I know he was mixed up with the Bracken scandal somehow. And now that Bracken's been murdered..."

"_What?"_

"In prison. It was on the news this afternoon."

Rick didn't know whether to feel elated or terrified. "Does Kate know?"

"I'm sure she does. Maybe..." Evelyn paused, biting her lip. "It was a bulletin. They're probably still fact-finding."

Rick reached for his phone.

"Wait!" Evelyn breathed. "Just look. Look at these papers."

Two pages, written in fountain pen long ago, faded and dampened and smeared. Names... dollar amounts, arrows showing a flow of money. Rick breathed, "She's second-in-line at the Justice Department... and... this can't be the same man as on the Supreme Court. Can it?" A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. "These guys here... they operate one of the biggest PACs in the country. They probably own half of Congress. This guy's in the war cabinet..." He shuddered. "Shit."

Evelyn had tears in her eyes. "Roy had nightmares sometimes. Sometimes he took phone calls, late at night, I caught him once, and he made me swear never to tell. Said it was life or death-" she paused, choking on the words that still broke her heart every moment of every day. "And... those bastards had him killed. Detective Beckett was shot at his funeral... now Bracken's dead."

"Why are you coming to me?"

"Because if I go to the police, I'm dead too. And maybe they'll take the girls down with me. I'm not a bad person, you understand me? But it's too much. I've already lost too much. You and Kate run more of a risk in ignorance than you would in knowing, because your lovely wife has a habit of kicking hornets' nests."

Rick chuckled ruefully. "True."

"And this word, here. LOKSAT?"

Rick nodded, thinking of Peter asleep in the next room, of Alexis in her forensics internship, still innocent of so many things. Liabilities that could be used against Kate, against him, against justice.

"LOKSAT."

She nodded. "I guess it's an acronym. I don't know for what, but I heard Roy say it once, and it scared the hell out of him."

"When?"

"A few weeks before his murder. It was one of those phone calls. He said, "'If word about LOKSAT gets out, I wouldn't even want to be living on this continent when the dominoes start to fall."

Rick felt a chill go through his veins. "You're sure?"

"I stayed out of the room, and when he came out, he looked like he'd been punched. I asked him... 'What is '? And... Rick, you need to understand, it was the first time, the only time, _ever_. He was always so gentle with me and the kids." She steeled herself for a bad memory. "He grabbed both my arms, shook me. Shoved me against the kitchen wall."

Rick's eyes widened in horror. "God, I'm so sorry." He squeezed her hand lightly. "I _never_ would have thought... I thought he was better than that."

She wiped a tear off her cheek and he pulled out a clean handkerchief for her. "Roy _was_ better than that! He started crying – a real rarity. He begged me to forget I'd ever heard that word, begged me to forgive him for hurting me. He was so broken up over it. So scared. _Scared for me._ And he never did it again. We never spoke of LOKSAT again."

"You don't forget something like that, though."

"I had bruises on my arms." She shook her head, and he could see her devastation.

He grimaced, "No excuse."

"No excuse. But a reason. Whatever he knew, whatever he did that let us afford that house and the cabin and the cars and my mother's hospice care, that got the girls into the best universities..."

"They're good students. He was proud of them."

She smiled bitterly. "They barely even bothered to apply for scholarships. Daddy just magically made it happen, and he worked so much overtime, went so above-and-beyond I barely thought to question the surprises and bonuses," she sighed. "He wanted to retire to San Miguel Allende in Mexico. He was always grumbling about not being made of money. But the money... it was always there. And the source? It killed him."

Rick nodded. "Do you need money now?"

She shook her head. "No. We're all right. His life insurance covered everything."

Rick said, "So, where did you find this?"

She sighed, her voice shaking. "Downsizing. He was the one who loved the cabin... I'm more of a city girl." She wrinkled her nose. "I hate the smell of catfish frying but... God, I'd give anything to wake up to that stink."

Rick nodded. "Yeah. I understand. So you were planning to sell the cabin?"

"Yes. I was cleaning it out. He had a fishing kit in the closet, you know, with the compartments?"

"Like a toolbox."

"Yes. I was gonna donate the kit to the local boys' club. It was a bit smelly, maybe a piece of bait got lost in there. Pulled out the trays, and there it all was in a baggie at the bottom." She shook her head. "Twenty thousand in cash, maybe? Fake passports for him, for me and the kids... And those sheets of paper, folded up. I knew better than to get my prints on any of it."

Rick stared at her soberly. "What do you intend now?"

"I don't know. Sit tight and pretend I know nothing? Or use that money and the passports, get the hell out of Dodge?"

"I can't make that decision for you," he sighed. "I've almost had to make it myself, a couple of times. Kate and I nearly... left the country before she made me turn around." He rubbed his forehead. "I always wondered who did this to us, and now that I know, I really wish I didn't."

Evelyn nodded. "I really don't know how much you should tell her."

He said slowly, "I think she needs to know that LOKSAT can't be touched, if for some reason it does come up. Do I have your permission to show her this list?"

"I had expected Beckett to be here with you, for some reason," she smiled a little. "I have a few old friends at the precinct. They tell me you're attached at the hip."

"I only wish it were more. I miss her when she's just gone for the day."

Evelyn's lips trembled. "I know." Tears started up in her eyes. "I miss Roy. _So_ much."

"You're not alone," Rick said gently.

"Oh, I am. I am so alone in this, you know? I'm not sure I should even have told you. But... This is a minefield Beckett just can't step into, because she'll blow us all up with it." She stood to go and set his handkerchief down on the table. "Well."

He stood and walked her to the door. "Are you concerned you were followed?"

She nodded, her smile nervous and rueful. "Probably being paranoid."

"Have our doorman walk you out the back way, and keep your phone at hand."

"Roy always taught me to trust my instincts. I won't let anyone mess with me," she said. She had a .22 in her purse.

"I'll go see Beckett, give her a heads up."

"Thanks."

He frowned at the floor a moment. "Evelyn, I wish I could tell you everything's gonna be all right, but..." he shrugged. "Just please, whatever you decide, watch your back. Be careful. And let me know if there's anything..." his voice trailed away. What could he do?

"It's okay," she said softly. "You have a lot at stake, too. I just hope nobody else gets killed over this. God be with us all."

He whispered, "Yeah."

* * *

•

The first thing he did after she left was to text Beckett. _"Meet me at swings 4__pm? Important. Come alone. xo__"_

* * *

•

He walked into Peter's room. The baby had pulled himself up to standing in his crib, one leg half-slung over the top railing, ready to climb over. _Holy hell. __Seven months old and too close to walking__. _

"You are a little _monkey_," Rick rushed to him and swept him up in his arms. "Daddy is not ready for you to use your crib as a jungle gym!"

The baby laughed, then blew a raspberry, then chanted "Dada ji ji ji ji" then squealed when Rick swung him around then laid him on the changing table. The diaper change was lightning-fast. Peter had mercifully outgrown his old trick of peeing in a face-anointing arc every single time his diaper came off. Rick dressed the baby in a fresh Captain Jackhammer onesie and tiny little cargo pants that made his diapered bottom look like a bubble. He singsonged at the Kid. "We're gonna go to the park and go on the swings, and we're gonna see Mommy..."

"Mamamamama!"

"Yes, Mommy!"

"Ba!"

"Did you say ball? You want to bring your ball to the park?"

"Da!"

"I swear, you talk better than some people twice your age," Rick chortled. He put some sunscreen on his own face, then on Peter's (who absolutely hated it), then they both put on hats and sunglasses, and when they walked out into the kitchen, Jackson Hunt was sitting at the kitchen island, wearing a pair of blue nitrile gloves, reading Roy Montgomery's diagram of the money flow.

He looked up and said, "How much did Mrs. Montgomery tell you?"

•

Peter knew his grandfather's face well. "PA!" and reached out for the old man.

Rick tucked his sunglasses into the collar of his T-shirt and breathed, "Who wants to know?" He did not approach his father. A sick, cold fear clenched his stomach, and he sighed out a shaky breath.

Peter looked up at Rick. "Da?" and put his fingers on his daddy's lips, hoping for funny noises. Rick said, "Peter, we're going for a stroller ride." Without taking his eyes off Jackson, he moved slowly to the stroller, as if he were watching a rhino that might or might not charge, and strapped the baby in.

Peter said, "Babo."

"I'll get your bottle." He moved to the fridge while the old man watched him, saying nothing. "Mommy made this milk just for you." A few moments later, he'd put a bottle of expressed milk into the warmer and set the timer. "Do you want applesauce? How about some crackers?"

"No, thanks, I already ate," said Jackson.

Rick snapped, "I wasn't talking to you!" and the baby whimpered, startled at his tone.

Jackson looked over at his grandson. "It's okay, Petie. Everything's fine."

"Everything's _not_ fine. Did you follow her here?"

"Maybe a little."

"Jeez, Dad, are we gonna find her dead in the parking lot? Or will you hold off till she feels safe?"

"What?"

"She doesn't have a chance in hell, does she?"

"Rick. She didn't. Not until this." Jackson held up the paper. "This is how we take them down, son."

"Oh, right. _We_. Where were you when Vulcan Simmons waterboarded my wife last year?"

"Thailand. Following a money trail. That disappeared, but it probably led... he looked down at the paper, pointing with a gloved finger. "Here. It's an opium cartel."

"What is LOKSAT?"

Peter said, "Lala," and played with the rattling mobile that dangled from the canopy of his stroller.

Jackson said, "He's practically talking."

"Seems almost ready to walk too, and I keep meaning to ask you about that..."

"About what."

"He's ahead, Dad. Developmentally, physically. About ten percent ahead. He was a preemie. So he should be behind. Which makes him 20% ahead."

"Great gene pool," Jackson said. "Must be Kate's side of the..."

_"BULLSHIT!"_ Rick yelled. The baby grew quiet and stared at Rick with saucer-wide hazel eyes. "Sorry Pete. Language. Sorry." He crooned softly to the baby, kissed his forehead, kissed the shock of gold-brown hair so like his own. "It's okay." He smiled at the baby, the baby smiled back, put a sticky fist into his own mouth, and batted at a brightly colored bead toy.

Rick walked over to his father, leaving the baby in the stroller to play. "I don't know what the hell you dosed me with at the Three Crowns before we went to Ireland, but Kate picked it up too. Passed it on to him."

"There was barely enough on your toothbrush to..."

"You told me it metabolized quickly."

"Well, yes."

"Well, _quickly_ after I brushed my teeth, I made love to my wife."

"So there might have been some residual in your saliva, but not enough to..."

"Dad, can you think of a number between 68 and 70?"

"Ohgod." Rick had never seen his father blush before, but now Jackson chewed on his lower lip and said, "That's a father-son discussion I had never anticipated having." He looked over at Peter, who was sorting the beads on a fat, looping wire with fingers that shouldn't have been able to... "He's sorting them by color."

"He's been doing that for almost three weeks."

"Is that normal?"

"No. It's... better than normal." Rick looked oddly torn between pride and worry. "The pediatrician says he's precocious."

"Did Kate do that sort of thing early? Did you?"

"Jim doesn't remember. Mother's sense of time is..."

"Fluid. Yeah. So she might not remember what you did when... Do _you_ remember?"

"I've been trying, but it's hazy and jumbled together. But I'm pretty sure he's way ahead of me at that age."

"That's probably saying a lot about his relationship to the general population." He looked sharply at Rick. "Any ill effects?"

"We don't know. He's growing fast and his scores are just slightly off the charts. And he almost took a header out of his crib while you were sneaking into my … hey, where the hell have you been for the last two months? We've been worried sick."

"None of your business, but Thailand, then Morocco, then Montreal."

"Why are you telling me?"

Jackson shrugged. "One of those is a lie."

The milk warmer beeped, and Rick walked the bottle over to Peter. "Here ya go, Captain Cutiepants," he said.

"Oh, God," Jackson groaned. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. Could be worse. Sometimes he's Private Poo..."

The baby took the bottle, made a face at it, whimpered, and said, "Nananana." Rick got down on his haunches to speak to Peter. "I know you miss the nursies, but you have to wait. We'll see Mommy at the park. She has her fancy shirt on today, and you can nurse then, okay?"

Jackson hid his face in his hands, flummoxed by a generation gap he'd never even known existed. "Nevermind." He stood up, and walked over to Rick with the paper in his gloved hand. "Take a good look at these. Think you'll remember everything?"

Rick studied them thoroughly again, nodded, and tapped his temple. "Steel trap. Can't unsee it now."

"All right then." Jackson opened the kitchen utility drawer, pulled out the lighter they kept with the birthday candles, and held the papers up to its open flame.

Rick squeaked, "Seriously? My brain's the only copy?" He hurried to stop Jackson, but the paper was old and dry, and it flared up in a second.

The baby crowed, watching the yellowish light and smoke as the embers dropped into the sink. Then Jackson turned the water on and flipped a switch, and the garbage disposal growled. The baby started crying.

"Hey, shhh. It's okay. It's okay. There are no monsters in the drain. I promise. Dad, can you shut that off? He hates it."

"So now we go meet up with Kate."

"We?"

"Yes. The three of us. Before she stick her nose where it's gonna get her killed. No... no phones. None of this goes through electronically, you got that?"

Rick nodded. "Yeah." He slung the baby-gear backpack over his shoulders and they left the apartment. "How did you know Evelyn was coming to see me?"

"We have a tracer on her phone, and her car. The Montgomery's cabin was off-grid, so that little trip caught us by surprise."

"Jeez. Who's _'we'_?"

"I have a partner in this operation. Let's take the stairs."

The two men went through the fire suppression door; Jackson hefted the stroller handle while Rick carried it from the front axle. The echoes fascinated Peter, and he sang and squealed, delighted as his high-pitched voice bounced back off the walls to his adorable little ears.

"Do you people even think about breach of privacy?"

"Oh, yeah, all the time. But you gotta realize, son. If we hadn't made these sacrifices occasionally, none of us would have any privacy at all. And there probably wouldn't be a free internet."

"I have no way of verifying that."

"No you don't." Jackson said. "You just have to take it on trust."

"_Trust?"_ Rick stopped and looked up at his father, whose gnarled hands were wrapped around the stroller's handle. The baby grew quiet, and looked Rick full in the face, then angled his chin up so he could see his grandfather, and he blew a raspberry at the old man.

Jackson laughed, really laughed, maybe for the first time in Rick's memory. He blew a raspberry back at his grandson. "Ah, who knows. Maybe it's all for nothing," he said.

They continued down the stairs. "Well, you did help me pull off that thing in Ireland."

"Yes, I did. To the detriment of some other very important projects."

"And you kept telling whoever'd listen that you were going to retire."

"So did Roy Montgomery," said Jackson. "But they beat him to it."

Rick stopped at the bottom fire door, his face grave. "Where does that leave you?"

"At the bottom of a stairwell with the potential savior of the free world, and my grandson the possible budding superhero."

"No pressure, then," Rick said. He smirked and opened the door. Inside, his guts were clamoring in terror. What the hell had he gotten himself into, this time?

They walked the six blocks to the park. Kate was there, waiting for them at the swings. Rick hurried up and greeted her with a kiss. "Hey, Beckett."

"Hey, Castle." She glanced over at Jackson in friendly half-puzzlement. "Long time, no see," and then to her son, "Hey, Peter. Look at you, did you grow this morning while I was at work?"

Peter replied with a crow of "GAH!" and threw his bottle out on the ground, narrowly missing a passing Canada goose scrounging in the grass. Kate bent and unfastened his safety harness, picked him up, and pulled him in for kisses while Rick retrieved the bottle.

"He's got quite an arm," Jackson observed.

"Doesn't he, though?" Kate grinned, bouncing her little guy, then kissing him on the nose. "He's gonna be a pitcher when he grows up. Already practicing his spitballs."

"Pfthtffbllsththt," said Peter.

"You look good, Kate. Cut your hair?"

She nodded. "It was falling out a little after he was born, and it was just everywhere."

Rick added, "Also he has a grip of iron."

Kate nodded with an eyeroll. "It was coming out in chunks."

Jackson nodded. "I remember when my brother was little, my mother bobbed her hair. Never grew it out again, she liked it so much."

Rick spluttered, "You have a brother?"

"I had two. And a sister. They're all dead now," he said uneasily. He hadn't intended to get into this, but there was something about that baby. "You know, all that kid has to do is look at me and I want to tell him my life story."

Kate glanced at Rick. "Your son's the same way," she said softly.

Rick said, "Did they have any kids? Do I have cousins? Second cousins? First cousins once removed?" He'd gone from being nervous, to being thrilled to see Kate, to being almost pitiably excited, in the space of about three minutes.

Sometimes Jackson Hunt found his son rather exhausting. "We'll talk about that another time."

"Another ti- Look, every time I see you I have no idea of when you'll come back, if ever. Do you think that's right, let alone fair?"

Peter was fussing at Kate's shirt. She grabbed a soft purple shawl from the backpack, and carried him over to a bench. "No fistfights, guys, I don't have my cuffs with me." She draped the shawl over her shoulders, unfastened her magical blouse with the secret panels, and Peter latched on like a bee to a rosebud. She sighed as he suckled contentedly. "Been a long day for both of us, huh, little buddy?"

She glanced up at her husband and his dad. It was almost amusing, both of them angry, standing in almost exactly the same attitude of weary, wary frustration. "So. You wanted to talk about something other than Peter's future in baseball?"

Rick and Jackson came and sat on either side of her. Rick said quietly, "You've heard about Bracken." He handed her a bottle of water, which she drank from gratefully.

Kate nodded with grim satisfaction. "Shanked in his cell."

"Have they caught the guy yet?" asked Jackson.

"No," she shook her head. "They probably won't. Someone disabled the cameras. Could have been anyone... he was an insufferable prick." She patted Peter's little diapered bottom. "Oh, sorry baby. Language."

Peter didn't reply with anything other than a happy "Mffm."

Rick and Jackson shared an anxious stare, and Kate said "I do have mixed feelings about the whole thing. I wanted him to rot for a long time, so that's disappointing. But it's probably the first murder I've ever heard of that I didn't want to solve. Okay, sweetie, let's switch sides."

She flipped the baby – who let out a brief squall of protest – and latched him on to her left nipple under the shawl. "Maybe I'd care more, but Captain Gates says I seem to have a case of nursing brain."

"Nursing brain?" said Jackson.

"Yeah. Blissed out on oxytocin. Not a care in the world," said Rick. He reached back to massage Kate's neck.

Kate chuckled. "Oh, I have cares all right. I have a pile of paperwork a mile high back at my desk, and I need to be in court three times this week, and did Rick tell you I'm starting at law school next Monday?"

Jackson said, "No, but I'm not surprised. You think you can pull it off? With the baby and all?"

She nodded. "Sure. I aced the LSAT, and Rick's probably the best stay-at-home dad on the planet."

"Back in my day, that wasn't considered a compliment," Jackson grinned.

"Well," Kate said rather sharply. "You've seen how Alexis turned out."

"I have. And my day's long passed, all for the better, I hope." Jackson looked up at the sky, where a gaggle of Canada geese winged south in their usual V formation. At the honking above, a few geese from the park joined up with them. He didn't seem to be able to quite look at Rick. "I'm proud of you, son."

Rick looked like someone had handed him a Pulitzer. He said, a little shyly, "I'm proud of you too, Dad."

Peter had fallen asleep. Kate buttoned up and laid him against her shoulder with a smile, patting his back gently. "Such a big boy," she murmured. She'd been accustomed to taking naps with him (and Rick) before she went back to work, and she closed her eyes and sighed a little, letting herself recharge, although certainly not intending to fall asleep in the park. Her eyes still closed, she added, "Really, I'm fine, Castle. Cut with the staring."

Rick took the baby from her; she didn't protest, just stretched out her arms and rolled her shoulders. "God, I could use a nap," she mumbled.

He said, "Uh, Kate, Evelyn Montgomery came to see me today."

Her eyes flew open. "Is she all right?"

Jackson nodded. "She's been moved to a safe place until this is over. And her kids as well."

"Until what's over?"

"Suffice to say that this thing with Bracken – he was just the tip of the iceberg," said Jackson. He spoke more quietly. "Have you ever heard of "LOKSAT?"

Kate shook her head. "Not that I can remember."

"Good. No matter what happens, if it does come up, stay away from it. Don't touch it."

"Does it involve my mom's..."

"Yes. And no, because it's much bigger. _Much_ bigger, and if you poke into it at the wrong time, way too many innocent people will die, including Montgomery's family, and likely everyone you worked with at the DOJ."

Kate felt a chill, took the shawl, and wrapped it across her shoulders. "Holy crap."

"Language," Rick whispered. The baby cooed in his sleep.

"Now, guys, I want you to meet someone."

Jackson looked up, indicating a middle-aged woman walking down the path toward them. She was rather tall and medium-framed, with auburn hair and a humorous twinkle in her eye.

Holding the baby, Castle stood, as he'd been taught by his mother, and extended his hand. "Richard Beckett," he said. "Call me Rick."

She extended a hand. "Rita Smith. You can call me Rita." She shook with both Kate and Rick, seeming to know who they were.

Jackson said, "She's my ex-wife." He pecked her on the cheek. "All clear?"

She nodded, businesslike, then peeked at the baby with a smile. "I've been looking forward to this. He's beautiful."

"Ex-_wife_?" squeaked Rick.

"It's been a long time. But we work well together. It's how we started out."

Rick and Kate exchanged a glance. He hoped he'd never be saying that about Kate. Jackson said, "Rita has some experience with babies. We were thinking that while I borrow Rick, Rita can play nanny and act as a bodyguard at the same time."

"Borrow..." Kate frowned.

"I hear it has something to do with saving the free world," Rick tried to put a happy face on it, and added, without being able to muster his usual enthusiasm, "This could be really cool?"

"How long will you be gone?"

Rick turned to his dad with a shrug. "I dunno. Not too long..."

"Maybe a few days. A few weeks, tops," said Jackson.

"Wait, what?" Rick's face fell. "But Peter just started crawling, I can't miss..."

"Hello. Free world?" said Rita drily. She was checking out Peter's toes, and he pushed his heel instinctively against her hand. "He's strong." She chuckled. "Wow."

"You have no idea," said Beckett. "Dislocated one of my ribs when I was giving birth. Look, I don't like this. Not you, Rita, I mean, no, I don't even know you, but..." she glared at Jackson. "I need to know more before I say yes to any of this."

"No, you really don't, but just to spare you some stress, I'll clue you in a little," said Jackson. "Rick will be on his way home from a meeting tomorrow night. He will be kidnapped and disappear off the face of the earth for a short time. I promise to get him back to you in one piece..."

"What? No!" Kate cried.

"You will put all your energy and clout with NYPD into trying to find him, and it will be to no avail. But he will be returned to you, and he will remember nothing about his disappearance."

"Why?" Kate gasped.

"Because anything he knows will put you all in danger."

"But..."

Rick stopped her. "Can you guarantee that my family will be safe?"

Jackson winced. "No. Of course not. For all we know, New York will get walloped by another hurricane on Thursday. All I can do is hope they'll be saf_er_. That they won't be in anyone's crosshairs when this thing goes down."

Kate said, "Rick's not a cop. He's not trained to..."

Jackson said, "Rick's a crack shot, and before you ever even earned your _badge_, he was trailing after the CIA, and he more than proved his strategic skills in Ireland last summer. Remember? He'll be as safe with me as anyone can be. And I'll be glad to have him at my back."

Rick's eyes went saucer-wide. "You will?"

"_Castle_," Kate rumbled. When it came to getting Jackson's approval, Rick was still vulnerable. Rick turned to her. He wasn't about to ask permission, but he did the next best thing. He put his arms around her, giving room for the baby to wiggle, and breathed into her hair.

"Your mom isn't their only victim," he whispered. "And you've done your part. Can you stand down?"

Kate nodded, the word more a sob. "Yeah."

After taking leave of Jackson and Rita, Rick and Kate went to the farm that night, just to have some alone-time before the poo hit the fan. They took Betsy for an after-dinner walk together with the baby in either Kate's arms or Rick's, showing him autumn leaves and the rock where he was born. Although he couldn't say it, Peter sort of remembered the rock, except it had been all shiny and silver. When he grew older, that fuzzy memory made him wonder whether he might be an alien, but when he eventually asked his mother, she explained, "It was just a mylar space blanket. There's absolutely no evidence of aliens."

After their walk, Kate gave Peter a bath and put him to bed while Rick and Betsy cleaned up in the kitchen (the floor was her job), and then the couple curled up on their bed, enjoying the little fireplace in their room, although they barely needed its warmth after twenty minutes or so of rather strenuous activity.

With Kate out like a light from her long day, and the baby snoozing away in the crib next door, and Betsy on watchdog duty, Rick went to the barn alone that night at about 11 pm. One of the 'treasures' hidden in Richard Castle's storage barn was a 1950s-era, top-of-the-line mimeograph machine, photo silkscreen gear, and enough purple developer liquid to publish his own encyclopedia. As a teen, thinking about creating his own science fiction zine, he'd purchased them in cash from a school district that had closed a few campuses and held a sort of garage sale. He'd had it refurbished, then never bothered to use it for anything, but he knew exactly where it was, and he found the directions in one of his file drawers, marked "Gadgets: Directions." He still had direction sheets for items that he'd already worn out, thrown away, or broken, and made a mental note to go through and cull that drawer out at some point.

He drew out a careful diagram of everything he remembered from Montgomery's diagram, and overnight, he printed up over a thousand copies on the piece of outdated technology. The fumes were sweet but quite heady, the rhythmic clatter irritating, he had to recut four additional stencils (later forensics experts would notice variations in execution but not in the information imparted). At about 5 a.m., he threw the barn door wide to let some fresh air in. He walked down to the stable and stood talking awhile to Fred, the old police horse, who hung his dappled head over the fence and breathed in the warm, chemical smell of mimeograph off Rick's clothes, and snorted in disapproval. It had been a cool, starry night, and Rick gazed up at the clear, deep-cobalt, early-morning sky.

"You think it's time to let the horse out of the barn?"

Fred didn't understand rhetorical questions, but he did appreciate the apple core Rick gave him. So, chewing on the sweet morsel, he huffed against the man's shoulder. _"Yes, Rick, whatever you want. __I don't suppose you have a carrot.__" _

Rick's father walked out of the shadows. "Time to go, son," he said. "I'd expected you to be sleeping up at the Castle."

Rick stiffened. _Too soon._ "It was supposed to be after the meeting tomorrow."

"Element of surprise," Jackson said.

"Look. Okay, but first... let me show you something."

They went back to the barn, and Rick showed him the stacks of mimeographs and the address labels being printed out on an ancient daisy-wheel printer. When Hunt stopped laughing, he clapped his son on the back. "Beats the hell out of my Plan A."

They sent the first wave overseas, to major newspapers, radio stations, and television networks, using a fake ID and a false return address. Hunt was able to temporarily disable cams on blue mailboxes all over New York state. The next wave went to every newspaper in North America, whether independent or syndicate. Then to every law enforcement agency from the Secret Service to the DOJ to the CIA down to volunteer deputies in flyover state trailer parks. Every mid-sized city hall in the United States, every embassy, the United Nations, every small local TV station plus a number of select cartoonists, freelance journalists, and political analysts. Electronically, the message was scanned in by a white-haired and extremely broad-shouldered grandma with immense feet, at a crowded, rather chaotic branch of the Poughkeepsie public library. The scan was converted to a .png and disseminated on all the major social networks, to select hackers, and to ham radio operators. A copy was received on the International Space Station, just to make the point: _Everybody Knows._

There was no way to arrange for everyone to open it at the same time. But there were simply too many copies, received by too many people who had already begun to suspect the truth and just needed a few dots connected, for the LOKSAT diagram to be ignored altogether.

Rick added only one phrase to his copy of the original diagram, using cut-out letters from magazines and newspapers in an attractive variety of fonts:

IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE THIS, FOLLOW THE MONEY

In the course of about four hours, the entire civilized world knew. The whole sordid affair made the Iran-Contra scandal look like an afternoon of innocent sandbox play.

There were accusations, there was backpedaling, there were dots connected, there were lines crossed, ps and qs were carefully minded... about seventy percent of the people who were implicated in the diagram tried to run, but being a world-famous person can be a drawback when you're involved in massive crimes against country or against humanity. There were subpoenas, stoppages in the flow of Thai heroin and Peruvian cocaine and money and guns and enslaved children and smuggled tiger penis bones and bootleg Viagra and pirated One Direction videos. There were indictments, trials, convictions. There were resignations, a couple of suicides, a murder staged to look like a suicide, another murder staged to look like a car accident, and a records warehouse in Washington DC that burned to the ground. A dictator was removed by peaceful coup. A well-known arms corporation was revealed to be the major backer of an international terrorist organization. Emergency elections were called as despots fell.

In the United States, one governor resigned, two members of the President's cabinet went to prison, and two justices (who, it turns out, interpreted the word 'justice' very loosely indeed) were removed from their seats on the United States Supreme Court.

All in all, not a bad 36 hours' work.

* * *

Eventually, after a year or so, Richard Alexander Edgar Rodgers Castle Beckett was revealed to be the whistle-blowing Deep Throat of what came to be called the LOKSAT Conspiracy Mimeograph. For even though the machine itself was long-gone, (as well as the daisy wheel printer and the Claire Sainte Victoire outfit he'd worn to use the public library scanner) when the NSA finally investigated him, there were still traces of the purple developer fluid in his storage barn.

Although Rick fully expected to go to jail for espionage, somehow that didn't happen. It's possible that his ties to New York's new governor, Robert Weldon, has something to do with it. Or perhaps Rick's father still had friends in the CIA. Weldon, however, had no influence whatsoever in Rick's reception of the 2019 Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Journalism for his nonfiction exposé, _"When Dragons Fall: The LOKSAT Conspiracy"_. On the other hand, Martha Rodgers may have had a bit of influence on the steering committee, nearly all of whom were fond of musical theater in general, and free season tickets to Broadway musical theater in particular.

It turned out that Rita Smith made a wonderful nanny and bodyguard for Peter and his little sister, Johanna, born in 2018, and she developed a close friendship with the family. Jackson Hunt married Martha at City Hall in the spring of 2019 after a long and surprisingly cautious courtship. They were happily wed until he disappeared in January of 2022, just after Peter's seventh birthday. Hunt's body wasn't found until 24 years later, in the basement of an abandoned nuclear missile facility just north of the Arctic Circle (in exactly which country has never been disclosed for reasons of you-know-what). Cause of death: hypothermia. Nobody knows how he got there, or why, but there was a shaky note written on the back of a gasoline receipt dating from April of 2022, that simply said, _"Safe now. Proud of you."_ Safe from exactly whom or what, they never knew. He was buried with honor as

_Alexander William Blondin  
aka Commander Jackson Hunt  
b 1920, Scobey, MT  
d 2022, Top of the World  
Beloved __F__ather, __Grandfather, and H__usband  
__Loyal P__atriot_

The person who found Hunt's body was Peter Beckett, aka Agent Decker Smalls, on a covert fact-finding mission to search out evidence of alien life revealed by receding permafrost. But that's another story.


	67. Chapter 67 - Corresponding Conditions

_This is the second-to-the-last chapter. Yup. Why the wait? I was debating. I valiantly resisted a major plot bunny that would have added another 3 chapters, and I think it was a good call, but my fingers are still twitching over it. And then I added a bunch of stuff to this, and it disappeared into the aether when my browser crashed. I think this S8 hiatus is messing with my muse._

_REMINDER TO SELF: SAVE CHANGES WITH THE COMPULSIVE CONSISTENCY OF A LAB RAT HITTING THE PELLET DISPENSER.  
_

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 64: Corresponding Conditions  
**

* * *

Notes from the Richard Rodgers Castle Beckett and Katherine Houghton Beckett archives:

_The notes are extensive - probably too extensive - but our dad had a strong desire to save things for posterity. There are over 100 boxes, and there would be twice as many if Mom hadn't put her foot down about the childhood refrigerator art collection. We've pulled a few items out for immediate note, that might be of interest historically, might be unique or say something about the things that mattered to our folks. But it's history, not our opinions, that will determine what matters in the long run._

_Thanks for your interest, and please let us know if any questions come up. The only one we can't answer is "Why...?" ;-) Our parents could be something of a mystery, but we hope that their actions have spoken for them in ways that even Richard Castle's words never could._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. Johanna H. Beckett, Dr. Peter Beckett, and Dr. Alexis Castle Horwitz,  
April 1, 2062_

* * *

Box 1 through 4_ – Richard Alexander Rodgers, early years before first publication  
_

Box 5 through 15_ – Richard Castle's notes for books written before meeting Detective Beckett. One/half box contains research for the Claire Sainte Victoire romance series.  
_

Box 16 and 17_ – Early schoolwork, school records, trophies, certificates, etc. for Dr. Alexis Castle Horwitz  
_

Box 18 – 20 _Information on Richard Castle Beckett's activities with the CIA before meeting Justice Beckett. Mostly redacted._

Box 21-37_ – Richard Castle's research notes from work at NYPD Twelfth Precinct, outlines, rough drafts, and unpublished poetry for Nikki Heat series._

Box 38 – 42_ Katherine Beckett's and Richard Castle Beckett's notes from work on LOKSAT exposé book, with additional research and commentary by Jackson Hunt and R- - _(name redacted)_. Copy of Pulitzer announcement for book, "Up in Arms, Down In Flames: The Rise And Fall of the LOKSAT Cartel."  
_

Box 43 – _Richard Castle Beckett's notes from work on Hollander's Woods / Porcelain Mask serial killer pursuit and conviction._

Box 44 - _Peter Beckett's research notes on the Bloodhound Project, in correspondence with Mia Laszlo and Dr. Horwitz._

Box 45-51 – _Childhood records of Peter Beckett and Johanna Houghton Beckett_

Box 52 – 54 _Richard Castle Beckett's research into "Simon Doyle" and theoretical alteration of the Energy Wars timeline _

_Box 55 - 58 – Richard Castle Beckett's notes on the Water Wars and the think-tank that solved the global groundwater pollution crisis._

Box 59 – _Seashells and test-tubes full of sand, each labeled with its origin from now-lost beaches worldwide, pre- Global Sea Rise Catastrophe  
(_handwritten note, black pencil:_ JoJo, how did these get in with the other stuff? I want them back after they're cataloged! - Alexis)_

Box 60 – 64 – _Notes on the life and times of Martha Rodgers, first draft of her book "Unsolicited Advice from A Broad", theater programs, television scripts, movie posters and playbills._

Box 65 – _80 Notes from Dr. Alexis Castle Horwitz on her doctoral thesis, "Hardwired for Madness: the Neurobiological Roots of Serial Killers and How to End the Cycle"._

Box 81 – _Financial records from the Johanna Beckett Scholarship Foundation._

_Box 82-97 - Katherine Beckett's notes during her tenure as New York Appellate Court Justice_

_Box 98-215 - Katherine Beckett's notes during her service as United States Supreme Court Judge  
_  
Box 216-223 - _Fan letters and death threats (dispose of as no longer relevant?)_

* * *

Sample documents of interest are included below in somewhat random order, but it's a drop in the bucket for anyone interested in the Castle/Beckett family legacy._  
_

* * *

1) Handwritten note from Sidney and Arlene Perlmutter, on pale-grey Japanese rice paper with black India ink. Exquisite penmanship.

_February 2, 2016_  
_Dear Detective Beckett and Mr. Beckett:_  
_I am writing to thank you for the very kind gift of airplane tickets to Japan. Sidney and I got to visit my birthplace at Real Girlz of Osaka. After our personalized tour and consultation, I am very excited about changes that will directly benefit myself as well as him. The gift certificate, which he presumes is in gratitude for saving both of your lives, is also deeply appreciated._

_He is not inclined toward direct correspondence. But I know that he wishes you both the best, and good luck with your new baby._

_Warm regards,_

_Arlene Perlmutter_

annotated in Mr. Beckett's handwriting: _"WTH?"_  
and in Chief Justice Beckett's as well: _"Typical :-D"_

* * *

2) Baby announcement, inkjet printed, smeared with brown coffee ring, with photo of baby and pink lettering (font: curlz)

_Kevin, Jenny, and Sarah Grace Ryan_

_Welcome our new "Irish Twin"_  
_Kathleen Helena Ryan_

_born just a little early_  
_February 20, 2016_  
_3 lb, 7 oz, 16"_  
_Finally home with us!_  
_May 2, 2016_  
_7 lb 2 oz, 19"_

* * *

3) Legal letter, Laser printed, black ink, on off-white 20-lb paper with linen finish. Signature in blue fountain pen ink.

_July 20, 2017_

_Rebecca Cohen, Esq._  
_Cohen, Dodd, and Phillips, Atty's at Law_

_Box 45, Grand Central Station, New York, NY 10022_

_RE: State of New York v. Zwolinsky_

_Dear Ms. Cohen:_

_Now that Mr. Zwolinsky has finally been sentenced for life, we hope that Elise Mowry has had the opportunity to continue deeper healing from her ordeal, and to move on with her life. Mr. and Mrs. Beckett have no wish to intrude upon the Mowry family's privacy, so they have asked me to contact you on their behalf._

_Because Zwolinsky had so many victims, the compensatory fund toward individuals will be minimal at best, and it seems unlikely they will cover such losses as medical expenses and missed work time._

_Since they were deeply affected by the conspiracy surrounding all three abductions, Mr. and Mrs. Beckett would like to offer Ms. Mowry a week's tuition at a women's self-defense boot camp taught in the Florida Keys by a female Special Ops veteran, in the hope that this training may help her feel a little more safe as she walks through the world. All expenses paid.  
_

_Additionally, the Becketts would like to offer her a gift of $500,000 (after taxes), which she may use in any way she sees fit to help her start a new life. The Becketts have made identical offers to Tiffany Ross and Kayla Twimbly, but whether or not Ms. Mowry or the others accept these offers, the Becketts will keep all of their decisions completely confidential. We ask that all parties do the same, with mutual assurance that this not in any way a publicity stunt._

_Richard Castle Beckett has asked me to express again his profound gratitude toward Ms. Mowry for saving his life, and his deep regret for breaking her nose. He and Mrs. Beckett wish Ms. Mowry all the best. Should she ever need any assistance, she is free to contact them, either directly or through my offices._

_Ms. Cohen, please relay this information to the Mowry family, and let me know how they would like to proceed._

_Yours very truly,_

_James Beckett, Esq., Attorney at Law_

* * *

4) Legal letter, Inkjet printed on 20-lb ivory paper, signed with black ball-point pen.

_July 21, 2017_

_Dear Mr. Beckett, Et Al:_

_I have contacted the Mowry family about Richard Castle Beckett's offer of camp tuition and a $500,000 gift. Elise has had a very difficult time, and is not interested in further contact with the Beckett family. She has respectfully declined the offer, with her thanks and best wishes. Should the situation change, Ms. Mowry will be in touch._

_Sincerely,_

_Rebecca Cohen, Attorney at Law_

* * *

5) Email, inkjet printed on 18-lb white recycled paper, from WriteRBeckett to KbexEsq, May 2015

I_ know this sounds crazy, but they have a doctor here – psychiatrist – testifying re serial killers &amp; there's something in his voice. I didn't realize it, was doodling on my notepad, I found myself drawing that mask, you know the old drawing I showed you with the cross and bleeding black eyes. Then he said something about demons, and I took a good look at his face. The voice &amp; the eyes, Kate. It's the guy from Hollander's woods. I swear it._

_His name's Dr. Van Holtzman. Like I said, crazy, but could we just have the guys ping him and see if anything raises a red flag?_

_Would be ironic if an expert witness on serial killers was into it himself. Holy shit. If that's the case he's gonna be slippery as hell. No wonder there was no trace in Hollander's Woods. _  
_Can't wait to get out of this courtroom but probably will be stuck here till 5. Race you to pick Peter up from GP's?_  
_Xo_

* * *

6) Greeting Card from Tiffany Ross (envelope not available). Card front embellished with digitally altered photograph of a Corgi dog whose nose is pressed against the fisheye camera lens, captioned _"Doggy Kisses..."_ and inside, _"Are the **Best** Kisses!"_ Note is hand-written in purple glitter-gel ink.

_August 26, 2016_

_Dear Rick -_

_Thanks so much for the boot camp thing! It was real nice to meet Alexis and Kayla, their so fun and Kai Rhee is just wow, I can't even! She says they call you Nermal. HA! My camp names Moondoggy. I just got back &amp; I still hurt all over, but I lost 5 pounds! Im so exited about the money you sent! The collage counsilor said I have dylsexia, and that might really slow me down getting a vetrinary degree. So I've desided instead of going to vet assistent school, to open my own pet-sitting &amp; grooming business for now with maybe bording if I can get a big enuf place. I really would of liked to be a vet but I can't do the math or spell worth poop. So this is ok. I've decided to call it S-Wag. Get it?! :-D Swag for dogs. So cute!_

_I here you adotped one of Betsys puppies to! That is SO COOL! Be carful with blood hounds tho, they need to have there ears clean off every day or they get stinky. Also they like to chase squirrels, so LOOK OUT! Haha._

_Let me know if you ever need your dogs walked when you guys r in the Hampsters. I mean Hamptons, ;-) Or anywhere on Long Island. Its' totally on the house._

_P.S. My grandma has a total fangirl crush on you :-D She's reel sweet but kind of weird sometimes. Its' not just old age, she's alwaze been that way._

_P.S.S. After the trial I stopped havin so many nightmares, hope you are doin better to._

_Smooches to you &amp; Katie &amp; Lil Petey,_

_Tiffany (heart symbol) xxxooo!_

* * *

7) Email. Laser printout, black ink, on white recycled 18 lb paper,

_September 20, 2017_

_Email: KaylasKomix_

_to: Rick_

_Hey Rick -_

_Just got the proofs back. They look amazeballs! Thanks so much for getting me in with Black Pawn Grafix. Let's hope the world's really ready for sexy cowgirls in space._

_However this goes, seriously. I will never forget your generosity &amp; faith in me &amp; Tiff &amp; even poor little Elise, wherever she is. You really put yourself on the line for all of us, and you didn't have to do shit._

_Hope I'll be able to make it to your Halloween bash... might even be bringing a date ;-) Wonders never cease._

_P.S. Say hi to Kate, Alexis, Martha, Jackson, Jim, the Littlest Einstein, and everyone at the 12th. Tell Karpowski and the boys I'll be sending them advance copies._

_P.P.S. Gina is a piece of work, all right. But she's got a heart in there somewhere.  
_

_XO/KT_

* * *

8)

Personal letter, handwritten on binder paper with serrated edge. College ruled with blue lines. Black ball-point ink changes to blue ball-point ink when it runs out at end of paragraph 3.

Signed.

•

_Elise Mowry_

_c/o Fernhill House_  
_P.O. Box 11203  
Sebastopol, CA 95472_

_February 13, 2019_

_Dear "Mr. Beckett",_

_I just saw in the paper that you and Mrs. Castle-Beckett had a second kid, so maybe this is a good time to write and say "Congratulations". I'm so sorry I didn't write you sooner. I know it's been a really long time since everything, and for a while I wasn't doing too good. I hit bottom about 6 weeks ago and my folks finally put me in rehab. I've been working hard to stay clean and sober. I have 47 days, one day at a time. I'm also working with a therapist for PTSD and she says I'm making progress. Sometimes it actually feels that way. 2 steps forward, 1 step back. Like dancing, only without the dancing. It's probably a good thing I didn't take the money you offered, I just would of shot it up._

_I told my sponsor the whole story about the kidnapping &amp; you rescuing me. She says I owe you amends. That didn't make sense to me but she says sometimes people need to help and I should of at least talked to you instead of shutting you out when you felt so bad about what happened to me.  
_

_I don't blame you for anything that happened. But for a long time I felt so weirded out because of thinking you were going to kill me, and then I killed Brown. It's so confusing, I still have nightmares every night. Sometimes you're the bad guy, sometimes you're the good guy, sometimes the dog is chasing me, sometimes she's trying to rescue me. Sometimes I can still feel his neck snapping under my feet. I think I can tell you that now, because you went through some of that too with your brother, and you saw me run into him Brown. I didn't think I would kill him but I kind of wanted to. I wonder if you have nightmares too? I keep wanting to forget everything, but my sponsor says if I don't learn something what's the point? I still haven't figured out what I'm supposed to be learning. I'd kind of rather not learn any more, but maybe I should go back to school and figure out what I want to do. I can't dance any more, and that was all I wanted to do before._

_Anyway I feel like I'm saying too much when all I really should say is thanks. Even though I don't know what to do with my life, it's better than what I thought was going to happen. So, thank you for rescuing me like the prince you are. And if you feel like writing me back, that would be really nice. But if you don't, I understand because it's hard with kids and a dog and all. I wish you and your wife lots of happiness with your new little family._

_Sincerely,_

_Elise Mowry_

* * *

9) Birth Announcement, pale green hemp cardstock with linen finish, deep lavender print, photo of the family with infant JoJo. Rick's hand is in a high-tech e-stim cast.

_Kate, Rick, Alexis, and Peter  
And our Extended Family_  
_Are So Thrilled_  
_To Introduce _  
_Johanna Madeleine Beckett_  
_Born March 27, 2019_  
_6 lbs, 2 oz _  
_At home in the bathtub _  
_After a mostly-serene, uneventful labor of 12 hours._  
_Rick's hand should be healed up in 6 weeks or so, if you're wondering.  
But like most of us, you're probably too excited to care. _

* * *

10) Email, Laser printout, black ink, on white recycled 18 lb paper,

_January 12, 2020_

_Email: MiasNoseKnows _

_to: Rick_

_Hi Rick -_

_Meeting Betsy and Peter was really interesting. You were right about one thing: he's definitely advanced for a five-year-old. I just hope that doesn't come back to cause him trouble later on. He's a cutie and he seems tough, but kids can be cruel. Have you thought about homeschooling him?  
_

__I think Peter's idea of working with Betsy to map scents for forensics might be a little advanced for second grade science fair.__

_;-) However, I'm willing to give it a try and see whether we can get useful information about Betsy's scent 'vocabulary'. If anything, it will be fun. Never thought I'd say that about working with a dog. Or a kid, for that matter._

_See you guys Thursday at my apartment. Make sure none of you are wearing artificial scents. They drive me nuts. Also make sure the dog has a bath with unscented soap beforehand, and brush her teeth if you can.  
_

_Say hello to Katie and Little Jojo._

_-Mia_

* * *

11) Handwritten personal letter by Katherine Beckett to Elise Mowry (found after Mowry's death and donated to archives by her son, Anders Blackthorn) Black ball-point ink on cream 30# cotton rag paper, monogrammed KHB with the Blueberry Hill Farm / Castle home address.

_February 25, 2019_

_Dear Elise:_

_Rick and I hope this letter finds you well. We are both SO happy to learn that your life is turning around. This is a first: he's finding himself at something of a loss for words, so, after five drafts, he's asked me to reply.*_

_Both Rick and I have had our share of traumatic experiences, and we have both been treated successfully for PTSD. Although it still resurfaces from time to time, requiring an occasional tune-up, it has become much more manageable. If you are working with a skilled therapist, and they offer EMDR and 'tapping', these techniques along with regular bodywork and meditation may be of help to you, as they have been for us._

_Also, a close relative went through the recovery process in a 12-step program. We're grateful every day that he's stuck with it and rebuilt his life. If anything, he's even a better man than he was before. It takes hard work and honesty, and we know you have the strength for both and you WILL pull through. But if you ever need a little extra hand or someone to talk to, please feel free to reach out to us. Our private number is printed on the stationery._

_We didn't want to intrude on your life before, and we still don't. But please know that you have always been in our thoughts, and we share the best wishes for your happiness.  
_

_By the way, Rick's dropped the "Castle" altogether since he quit writing murder mysteries. Now it's just a nickname among friends (and you're welcome to call him that!). But no worries, he's still writing. If Fernhill Center has a library, we'd be glad to donate a few books._

_Love always,_

_Rick and Kate Beckett_

_*Also, Rick wants me to tell you he burned his finger in a freak welding accident so typing is a challenge, but he's just being a big baby. He'll be fine. :-)_

(Katherine's signature is in black ball point ink as is the rest of the letter. Richard C Beckett has initialed the note at bottom in rainbow-streaked colored pencil with a crude drawing of a long-necked bird, possibly a swan in flight. Archivists are still puzzled as to the meaning of the image.)

* * *

12) Handwritten letter on lightweight blue air-mail paper, blue ball-point pen, slight smudge of dirt on right of page, signed by Zariya Idrisi and Adil Idrisi:

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Beckett,_  
_I am writing this for my father, Mr. Adil Idrisi, whom you know as the gardener at the Hunstman's Arms hotel. He has asked me to thank you for the check for €25,000 which would more than cover surgery to reduce the painful scar tissue and repair his eyelid! He was very surprised to get the check and at first did not believe it. Then he said he would return it because he is a proud man and good people just help when they can. But my mother pointed out that you did not even have time to post a reward before you were reunited, and Mrs. Beckett might have died without his help, and so he stopped arguing. He would be glad to return the rest of the money to you once all the bills have been paid._

_My father has consulted with a doctor and it looks like he will be having the surgery next Thursday. He has lived with this scar since I was a very small child. It will be strange to see him made whole again, but we are so very happy._

_Sincerely,_

_Zariya Idrisi and the Idrisi Family_

_Ballymore-Eustace_  
_Ireland_

* * *

13) Email, laser printed in black ink on hemp paper, 15#, excerpt, undated.  
_modogz_

_Hey Rick -_  
_Damn, if I didn't know Lizzie and Liza were Betsy's clones, I'd say they're her clones. These dogs are just frickin' amazing. I mean you should have seen how they reacted when they saw Nuwwar, it's like they already knew her. Probly just smelled her on my clothes or something._

_Only trouble is they're both bossy Alphas. But we've known that from Day 1. They probly shouldn't work together, be one big bitchfest._

_Are you guys feeling ready for an additional dog yet, or should I place one of the girls with another K9 team? Your call. Let me know, bro. Looking forward to seein you next week at Hollander's Woods thing. If theres any evidence theyll find it._

_mo_

* * *

14) Email, laser printed in black ink on hemp paper, 15#, edge is marked with a child's drawing – presumably Peter Beckett's, of a boy and a gray spotted dog with black ears and a long red tongue. The dog is sitting on a rainbow bridge.

_Tiffany Ross_

_Tiff _  
_to_  
_Rick_

_December 14, 2022_

_Hey, Rick, I looked into the cost for intracranial tap and the math/chemistry/spelling upload is $30k. I already have that in my account (thanks to you) so I won't need a loan. I've always wanted to be a real vet, so this is SOOOO exciting! I should be able to get through vet school by 2024 since I already have undergrad classes done. It will be nice to have somebody else do the anal gland cleaning on old pugdogs. :-P  
_

_I'm so sorry about Betsy's passing, especially for Peter since she was with him from day 1. You know the Rainbow Bridge thing. She'll be waiting, and I'm glad to learn that the cloning process worked well again. The world needs more Betsy's! What did you decide to name the new ones?_

_Waffles is still the spitting image – haha, maybe drooling image, I bet you'd say that! of her clone-mama and takes me for a run 2x a day. Alexis asked if she could do a brain scan on Waffles. Did the lab do a smell map on Betsy as well? I think little Peter is right: It will be amazing if they can program a dog's scent analyzer into a human intracranial tap. But it would be sad to put good dogs out of a job. I guess they'll have to go to work keeping people's couches warm instead :-D_

_Say hi to Katie for me and give JoJo a tummy raspberry!_

_Xo_

_Tiff_

* * *

15) Printed announcement on blue card stock, with hologram of four hands cradling a sleeping newborn baby in a NYPD 12th Precinct onesie:

_Javier Esposito and _

_Ameena Gashkouri_

_announce_

_the birth of our little pride and joy  
Kevon Javier Gashkouri  
7 lbs 3 oz, 19"  
June 9, 2021, 4:23 a.m.  
Strong as an ox, gentle as a lamb_

* * *

16) Handwritten letter on white onionskin paper intended for airmail, black ballpoint ink, signed  
_Eife Murray  
Brenda Jones  
_(no address, but presumably from the house across the lane from Murphy's)

_Dear Mr. "Beckett", _  
_We were so shocked to find you at our door last month, I'm sorry we weren't as friendly as we might have been; also we would have at least had a supply of cookies laid in but it's not often we have visitors. I should tell you my housemate had to lie down after you left. She was a bit glassy eyed and didn't say much because she's read all the Nicky Heat _(sic)_ books and didn't want to "out" you. _

_It was so nice to see your service dog Betsy again (we saw her on the street that morning with your friend, with no idea what was in store for any of us to say the least!) and hear your side of the story about our dreadful neighbors. What a fright they gave us all when their house blew up! As I told you we always knew there was something odd about them but if we had only known how odd, we would have reported them to the Gardai long before. The dogs never liked them. That should have been a clue, as you mystery writers say._

_Thank God, the Gardai's forensics team has combed over every inch of Mr. Murphy's garden (sometimes with tweezers). Of course the entire row of houses was razed after the trial, with the neighbors down the end relocated to a place less likely to fall down in a heap and kill them, and the pile of rubble carted away. Now it's just an empty lot with bits of broken brick. The neighbors round the other side of the row are up in arms because the Council hasn't rebuilt their fences yet and Mrs. Finnegan's California Flannel Bush tree took a beating in that cold wind that came through from the Artic. Global warming, my arse. So if you'd really like to help with getting the walls rebuilt and all, since that bastard Michael McGowran's estate won't be covering such niceties anytime within the millennium, I'm sure they'd be grateful to have your contractors come round to have a look. _

_As for turning the empty row into an off-leash dog park, we've considered your proposal and despite our initial skepticism, we're now very excited about it. As it is the only place local for them to run is the churchyard up the way, and the management there is always after us, afraid of canine misbehaviours and messes on the graves, which I'm sure is understandable. I spoke with the neighbors round the block, most of whom have dogs, and they're all for it provided that there are stations for water, there are baggies for the doggie-doo, and tip bins. Also whilst it would be nice to have some landscaping, we definitely prefer gravel over either asphalt or bare mud, which some bad puppies like to roll in, and I think rosebushes around the memorial fountain would be counterproductive with the thorns and all. Day Lilies might be nice. Of course we'll need to get permitting and landscape architects and all of that, the more we can do on our end the better, because the City of Dublin will take its own sweet time and I won't see it till I've been dead 300 years. I think you're right that managing the park could become a part- time job between the two of us, and since Eife has been out of work for a few years, that would be fan-bloody-tastic to have a little extra money coming in. So you'll need to set up some sort of company for that, I suppose. The more I think of the possibilities the more excited I get. Do you think it's possible we could set up a kiosk for dog rescue and have little Adoption Faires? There are so many strays in Dublin in need of good homes. _

_I cannot believe I'm writing to an American Mystery novelist and hero about the disposal of doggie doo. We live in a strange world._

_Look forward to hearing from you. We're trying to figure out the Skype but it's not going so well. We should find ourselves a twelve-year-old to figure it out for us._

_Yours Truly,  
_

_Brenda Jones_

* * *

17) Printed announcement on white 20# paper, blue and metallic gold NYPD insignia/logo_  
_

_The City of New York Police Department_

_cordially invites you to the swearing-in ceremony  
for Twelfth Precinct Homicide Chief_

_Kevin Matthew Ryan_

_Wednesday, July 7, 2022, 5:30 p.m.  
Twelfth Precinct Conference Room_

_Fourth Floor_

_Cocktail reception to follow_  
_The Old Haunt Bar and Grill_  
_Soho_

* * *

18) Obituary on hemp newsprint, New York Times, March 30, 2025. Photo of James Beckett holding granddaughter Johanna ('JoJo') on his lap, with grandson Peter standing beside them, leaning over his sister to tickle her.

J_ames (Jim) Emery Houghton Beckett Esq._  
_June 28, 1950-March 15, 2025_  
_After a long illness, at home in the arms of his loving family._  
_  
Preceded in death by his parents, George James Beckett and Estelle (Vanderbeek) Beckett, his sister Teresa and brother Frank, and his beloved wife, Johanna Marie Houghton Beckett._

_Jim leaves behind his daughter Katherine Beckett, son-in-law Richard Rodgers Beckett, grandchildren Alexis (David), Peter, and Johanna, and great-grandson, yet to be born but likely to be named James. Also in mourning are his loving longtime companion, Celeste; his dear friend Martha Rodgers and Bill Wilson, and his law partner, Dave Pemberton. Jim will be missed by countless friends with whom he shared the long road to recovery, and the many grateful clients whom he guided around the pitfalls of civil cases and, later, patent law._

_Jim was a scion of one of the more obscure branches of the Beckett family, established in Connecticut somewhere back in the Jurassic period. The first years of his life were spent cultivating his reputation as the hard-drinking black sheep of the family. He scraped through law school and, against his cousin Roderick's better judgment, landed a last-chance position in a corporate law firm run by the Houghton family. There, in 1976, he met the love of his life, Johanna, an idealistic intern who intended to set up her shingle as a public defender. Through the blur of 3-martini lunches, Jim realized that Johanna was the brightest ray of sunshine he'd ever seen in his life, but she refused to have anything to do with him because he was 'a spoiled rich kid and a goddamned corporate tool.' At her challenge, Jim quit both the martinis and the firm, setting up his own modest practice in civil law. Eventually, Jim turned the Houghton family motto "Malgre le torte" ("Despite the Wrong") on its ear, and Johanna gave up the battle in the face of his persistent pursuit, ultimately to win the war. Katie came along in 1979, and was flower girl at their wedding in 1983. Married to a _very_ liberated woman in the early 1970s, Jim was the first man in the family to take his wife's name as his own... but as his son-in-law can happily attest, not the last._

_With Johanna's untimely death in 1999, Jim suffered a relapse in his problems both with attitude and alcohol, and became estranged from family, friends, and workplace. Suddenly on her own, Kate switched from studying law at Stanford to the New York Police Department's Academy. After earning her badge, she became the youngest female detective, and one of the most decorated detectives, in NYPD history. As Kate rebuilt her life, so did Jim, who found recovery from his addiction and restarted a new law practice from scratch. And just when he thought he could not be any more proud of his daughter, she solved her mother's murder and brought down an international conspiracy. This closure allowed Kate to return to law school at NYU, eventually to practice criminal law with the state prosecutor's office. It also removed the weight of mourning from Jim's life, and he found new joy with his loving sweetheart, Celeste, who stayed with him to the end._

_Meanwhile, Jim retired to spend time with family and grandchildren._

_Jim's quiet humility, serenity, wisdom, and strength were hard fought-for, and hard-won. Embracing each day to its fullest, he was a tremendous example to everyone who knew him well. Family dinners, baseball games, movie nights, diner coffee and pie, and upstate trips to the cabin at Higgins Lake will never be the same without his enthusiasm and wicked sense of humor. Jim is also survived by his nemesis, the mythic Fat Old Granddaddy Trout of Higgins Lake, who would be relieved to know about it, but who cannot read. You win this time, Trout. Enjoy those damselflies.  
_  
_Jim was finally laid to rest beside his beloved Johanna, at Manhattan Memorial Cemetery, after a private memorial service.  
_  
_Celebration of his life will be held at Blueberry Hill Farm, Middletown, NY. Please contact Paula Haas of Black Pawn Publications for details._  
_In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the Johanna Beckett Memorial Foundation._

* * *

19) Obituary on hemp newsprint, April 3, 2030

_Ryan, Kevin and Jennifer (O'Malley)  
_

_Returned to the arms of their Eternal Father when their flight from the Moon Colony crashed on landing at Carter InterSystem Spaceport. Captain Ryan was a respected officer, whose quiet but firm leadership kept unity among law enforcement ranks during the lunar uprising of 2029. Mrs. Ryan was a beloved schoolteacher who taught generations of first graders not only how to read and write, but also how to do the hokey-pokey and offer the hand of friendship in difficult times. They leave behind their distraught children, Sarah Grace (Allison Hanley), Kathleen Helena (Mahmoud Al-Janeer), Richard Javier (Inez Ferreira), and Victoria Claire; also their grandchildren Michael, Renee, Thomas, and Kevin._

_Memorial mass at St. Philomena's Church, Brooklyn, New York._  
_Wake at the Old Haunt, Soho._  
_Please contact McBride Funeral Home, Brooklyn, for details._

* * *

20) Invitation on heavyweight cream paper, oil-based ink, letterpress, embossed with state seal.

_**State of New York**  
_

_Court of Appeals  
Cordially Invites You to Witness  
Judge Katherine Beckett  
Sworn into Office  
January 3, 2027, 3 p.m.  
Albany Courthouse, Albany, NY  
Appointing Governor Robert Weldon_

* * *

21) Obituary on hemp newsprint, March 14, 2028

_Javier Dominic "Espo" Esposito, b. 2/15/1978, d. 3/11/2028_  
_US Army Special Forces tour of duty 1998 – 2006_  
_Operation Enduring Freedom_  
_NYPD Homicide Division, Detective from 2008-2015  
Qualified for Sergeant, Homicide, 2015  
Left NYPD 2017 to work in Private Security field.  
Killed while protecting a client. Javi was loyal and brave to the very end.  
He is survived by his devoted wife and partner, Ameena Gashkouri of New York City; his loving sons, Kevon and Ricardo; his dear friends Lanie, Kevin, Jenny, Kate, Rick, and Alexis. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the NYPD Widows and Orphans fund.  
Service at St. Teresa's Catholic Church, March 16, 2027, 4 pm  
Wake to follow at  
The Old Haunt Bar and Grill, Soho_

* * *

22) Heavy white cotton card stock, embossed with United States official seal with metallic accents, black oil-based letterpress ink

_President Robert Weldon  
Cordially Invites You  
To the Formal Appointment  
Of  
Katherine Houghton Beckett  
Judge, United States Supreme Court  
Supreme Court Building  
Washington, DC  
Wednesday, December Tenth  
Two Thousand Forty One  
Champagne Reception to Follow_

_•_


	68. Chapter 68 : Happily Ever Afterword

I decided that since it was over 10K words long, I should split my Very Last Chapter into 2 more manageable chunks for you, my darling readers. But I'm posting them at the same time because as I said before, I like a happy ending. But getting there is not going to feel happy. But as I said before, we have to come full circle, and if you'll remember the first moment of this ... uh, novel ... Rick was standing at the Pearly Gates. Which means Someone Has To Die. Which is a very strange way to get to Happily Ever After.

Hang in there. We'll be okay.

* * *

**Happily Ever Afterword**

**October 7, 2062****, Beckett's Castle, NY**

Kate lay back on her pillow with a grin. Her hair spread out in waves of silver and faded caramel, and Rick leaned in for one more kiss before he collapsed down next to her with a groan of mixed satisfaction and pain.

He said, "The worst thing about getting old is that everything takes more time."

She nodded and turned toward him. "Also, the best thing about getting old is that..."

"...everything takes more time." He smirked. "Sorry about the lamp, by the way."

She shrugged. "We haven't broken one since your seventieth birthday. We were overdue."

He closed his eyes with a contented sigh. "The other best thing about getting old...?"

"Being retired and getting to nap after midmorning sex?" she murmured. She reached up to stroke his temple, feeling his crow's feet wrinkles beneath her fingertips, then pushing back through his thinning-but-still-mostly-there white hair. He now wore it cropped quite short, no longer bothering with the pretense of youthfulness he'd maintained to the very end of the war. She was surprised that the world's hair mousse market hadn't collapsed, but it did save him a lot of time in the morning.

"Mmhmm."

Kate said, "I'm gonna get up and do some gardening. I've been putting off getting some bulbs into the ground before it snows."

"Mm. Careful on the stairs."

"I'll use Martha's chairlift."

"Thanks," he mumbled. They called it _Martha's_ chairlift even though they all used it now, Kate after two falls and Rick with his questionable knees and Martha, who now had a walker upstairs and a hover-chair she took everywhere else.

Martha lived with them in the main house, in Peter's old room. They hadn't heard from him in, what, three years now? It was painful, but he had his own life to live. They could only hope that one day he'd settle into the private sector. Once he was done with saving the world. And if he survived it.

* * *

Betsy's sixth-generation clone, Betty, started barking before the delivery van even descended onto the landing pad in their driveway. _Damned_ couriers. How she hated them, with their boxes from other planets and envelopes of questionable news. Rick kept her clipped onto her leash. "Sit, Bets-I mean Lizzy-dammit. Bessy - BETTY. Sit. Quiet. Good girl."

Then he gave her a liver treat, but oh, the indignity! She hated sitting when there was a whirring _thing_ dropping out of the sky. Probably with boxes or worse... envelopes. Envelopes from... anywhere. _Anybody. _Except, unless very rarely, Peter. She liked envelopes from Peter because they made Rick and Kate so happy.

Betty said, "Wooooragghgh". She missed Peter. All the Betsy clones missed the children. It was hard to explain, like a memory that isn't yours, but gets under your skin anyway. Every time Nuwwar or Alexis took her running, she could smell the Castle children and all their friends, Matt's girls and Esposito's boys and the Ryan kids and so many more, swarming over the hillsides from spring to autumn, picking wildflowers or assembling fairy houses or gorging on huckleberries or constructing tree forts, smell their first loves and the makeout sessions and the experiments with booze and pot and, in particularly in Johanna's case, homemade rockets. She could also smell older versions of herself, Betsy and Lizzy and Leesy and Bitty and LeeLee and Lizbeth and Bettina and now her, all genetically identical, all endowed with the gift of preternatural smell-o-vision. She could smell her own ghost. It didn't bother her. She figured everyone knew how to do that. You know how a particular smell - say, a perfume or baking cookies - can elicit strong emotion, almost like a sort of time travel, where the last time you smelled it is almost _real_. It was a little like having imaginary friends.

Rick said, "I don't know why we keep naming you girls with variants on Elizabeth. It's like doing roll call just to get your name right." He opened the door wide and the courier guided a box-laden hover-dolly into the vestibule. The box was big, and heavy. Rick was still strong, but after ninety, despite having had all the spinal disks plus his knees replaced, the fragility of his body tended to catch him unawares sometimes. So he directed the courier to the old farmhouse table. He signed for the package, tipped the courier $300, and called out to the backyard.

"Beckett? Advance copies are here." Oh, of course she didn't hear him. Her cochlear implant needed the battery switched out.

Betty threw a triumphant parting bark at the departing courier. _"Yeah. You better run." _

Castle whistled for Bets-Bitty-Betty and they went to the back porch, smelling the chilly fall air, the sweet scent of leaf-mould and fresh-dug earth. The backyard was shaded under the two immense Irish oak trees they'd planted back in the spring of 2015, around the time of Peter's birth. He'd grown tall, they'd grown taller. There was a treehouse in the low branches where the grandkids played in the summer, and a swing made of a redwood board and two sisal ropes. Kate was kneeling beneath the tree on the right, with her back to the house, digging in the flowerbed with a trowel.

Betty trotted out into the backyard, greeted Kate, then sniffed around in the underbrush, hoping to startle the mole she sometimes heard burrowing around under the lawn. She'd never caught a one of them.

Rick paused a moment, just taking it in. The trees had lost most of their leaves already. A couple of crows nattered in the branches, picking arguments with some industrious squirrels, all of them after the last of the acorns, all of them mildly cautious of Kate, all of them cautiously annoyed at Betty, who loved chasing anything that moved.

And there was Kate, in the middle of it all, at the center of everything in his life, as always. Even at eighty-three years old, she was beautiful and strong. Her long hair was pulled back from her face in a French braid streaked with a ribbon of white. She was wearing one of his big wool Pendleton shirts as a jacket.

"Kate? Book's here. Come see."

She said, "Just a minute, I'm almost done. No, Bets-Lizzy-. Betty. No. No squirrels! Sit."

Betty sat, leaning against Kate, but only lightly: she'd been surprisingly easy to knock over, of late. So Betty did the Lean of _I Am Being Such A Very Gentle and Careful Girl_. Kate caressed her ears. "Who's a good girl."

Betty was a very good girl, even though her nose wanted to go one way and her tail the other. She stayed still, so as not to disturb Kate at her work.

Rick sauntered out with a handful of peanuts and laid them on the old, broken birdbath bowl that had embedded itself in a tree trunk during the lightning storm. The bowl looked almost like a naturally-occurring thing. The tree had formed a flowing scar of bark around it, green moss had grown along its underside, and the shelf of stone was now a crescent sliver instead of a half-circle. The crows couldn't perch on it anymore, just knocked the nuts down with their claws, then caught them midair with their beaks. Rick said to the crows, as he'd said every chance he got for the last few decades, "That birdbath's gonna disappear altogether one day, and then what will you do?"

And Kate said, as always, "Go find their nuts somewhere else."

He'd always laugh. Every single time. He laughed this time too, then said, "Jojo and Armen are coming for coffee this afternoon."

Kate paused. "Which one's Armen?"

"The one she married."

Kate grimaced. "Why can't I keep them straight anymore?"

Rick shrugged. "He's number 3, but he's a nice guy. Maybe a keeper."

"Third time's the charm?"

"Worked for me," he grinned. "I think it'll help when you've met him. She's hardly ever brought any of her guys home."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Gee. I wonder why."

"Hey, you're the one they call Kickass Kate. You're a lot scarier than I ever was." He helped her up gently, waiting while she stretched her spine and hips a little, kicking at the fallen leaves to get circulation back around her knees. Holding his arm, Kate let him walk her back into the house. She stopped at the entrance, holding on to the grab bar by the door frame for balance as she kicked her boots off. She was radiant from the crisp fall weather.

She looked at him as if she'd forgotten he'd already been standing there. "Good timing. I just finished planting some bulbs under the oak trees," she smiled. She pulled off her gloves and set them in her mudroom cubby.

"Bulbs? What kind? I hope not incandescents. They're collectors' items nowadays."

"Pfft. Hyacinths." She went to the sink and scrubbed her hands, removing the dirt that had crept in at the wrists of her gardening gloves. "As blue as your eyes. They'll come up in spring, right next to the earlier daffodils. After that we'll get tulips if the damn gopher doesn't eat them all."

She dried her hands, walked over to Rick and rolled her stiff shoulder, then reached up to lace her fingers behind his neck. Forehead to forehead, he rubbed her upper arms, then her stiff fingers, and she let out a happy moan. "You're a genius at that."

He said, "You need to go in for your Antiflam shots."

She sighed, annoyed. "They help with the inflammation, but they make me..." she shook her head, trying to remember the word. "Distractible. Make my heart do little flipflops."

He kissed her nose. "That's my job. Either have the doctor adjust the dosage, or I'll make you eat so much turmeric you turn the color of a cheese puff."

She laughed and kissed him.

He leaned in, smelling the autumn wind in her hair, still captivated by her scent after all these years. "It's so good to be home."

"I miss the bench, a bit. But I've had enough of DC for a lifetime."

"Well, good thing you retired. Now I can have you all to myself. In the backyard. On our very own bench."

"If by _'all to myself'_ means you are still happy sharing our bed with two cats, a bloodhound, and a ferret."

"Just till Jimmy graduates from college and takes the ferret wherever he winds up. And besides, they keep you warm on the side I can't cover."

"I really don't see why Jimmy can't just keep the ferret in his dorm room, considering how much we donated to the physics department."

"Hey, hey. No abuse of privilege!" he admonished, and she laughed.

"Said the man who knows a guy."

"Well, now you know a guy too," he grinned. He assumed the false, tinny cheerfulness of a commercial TV actor. "Look, honey! I'm a published author!" He reached into the box and pulled out a hardcover book. There was a picture of a tough-but-pretty teenage girl and a robot dog on the front cover. Behind them, a few planets, and a spaceship with solar wings that resembled a rabbit with huge, splayed silver ears.

"**_Katja Bennett, Inter__Stellar__ Detective!_**

**_The Thrilling Conclusion of Katia's Adventures_**

**_Book __1__6__: Take the Bunny and Run"_**

"Conclusion?" Kate pouted. "I feel like you just started." That had been decades ago.

"This is the last one, remember? I want to do shorter stuff. We can travel, spend time at the cabin... I can write some poetry. Essays. Online rants! Maybe work on your memoirs a little."

"Who'd want to read that?"

"I would. For one."

"Ooh!" Kate said. He got the strange feeling she'd forgotten she was holding the book, looking at it with beginner's eyes when she'd already seen it. "I like this art. Is it Kayla's?"

Rick nodded. "She submitted six versions. She never fails to amaze."

Kate then flipped it to the back, her hazel eyes crinkling in annoyance. "Damn small type. Glasses?" She hated wearing them, and hated keeping track of them, and resisted getting her eyes fixed because they still hadn't perfected the astigmatism correction. Sometimes there was no pleasing her. So now that she no longer had an assistant, and rarely had need of a purse, he had become full-time Keeper of the Glasses.

Rick handed her his reading glasses and she dialed her prescription into the adjustable lenses. She gave him a radiant smile, cleared her throat and read aloud:

"_Richard __C.__ Beckett_

_is the beloved bestselling author of the wildly popular  
_

_**Katja Bennett: InterStellar Detective!  
**mystery series._

_Set 500 years in the future, _

_Katja and her wise-cracking robot dog sidekick, Arthro,_

_rove the universe fighting crime and searching_

_both for her parents, abducted by a secret agency, _

_and the alien tech, Artificial Intelligence chip_

_that will give Arthro a soul instead of just a brain. _

_The author lives with his wife,  
retired United States Chief Justice Katherine Beckett,  
extended family and countless pets..."_

"Countless? We have a dog, two cats and a ferret."

"We have the crows. And the fish. Also all the critters down at the stable. And the sea monkeys... and have you check the tardigrade colony under the microscope? They're breeding like... like tardigrades."

"Okay. _Countless_ pets..." she kept reading:

_"somewhere in the Western Hemisphere.  
Possibly in a treehouse._

_A Pulitzer and Newberry prize-winning author,  
Richard C. Beckett used to write crime novels in his spare time."  
_

"Spare time!" Kate laughed.

"I like to cultivate the air of vague mystery."

"Vague is right." Kate's smile faded a little. She'd had a bit of trouble lately – just a bit – with keeping thoughts completely straight. The stress of working, first as a cop, then as an attorney, as a judge and then her appointment by President Walden to the Supreme Court, had both kept her sharp and taken its toll over the decades. And there had been a little scarring detected on her brain, probably lesions from the occasional beating she'd taken as a homicide detective. Since 2045, Rick had been urging her to retire, but she'd kept working until after the Water War reparations had been made, and the World Tribunal Court safely established and running smoothly. Somehow, she'd carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, then finally put it to bed when a new President she trusted ensured her of a successor she deemed worthy. And now her mind seemed to want a rest. Most of the time Rick didn't seem to notice. He tended to pick his battles, hiding concern instead of fussing like a mother hen, which is what he really wanted to do. But occasionally, she felt as if a gear had slipped in her brain. Gears. She thought of her old Harley, wondered what had happened to it... oh, yes. Peter had it now. He'd converted it to electric. Didn't make that fun rumbling noise anymore, but it was still fast as all fuck.

Rick's faded-denim blue eyes had not lost their twinkle. He reached for the book. "Now you have to give it back."

"I gave it to Peter. I hope he's taking good care of it."

"Of what?"

"My bike."

"Kate, that's not a bike. That's a book. The advanced copy," he said patiently. Brought back to the present, she whined, just a little, for effect. It was a game they'd played many times. "But I haven't seen the dedication!"

"It can wait. JoJo should be here soon. With Armen."

"Armen? Oh. Armen. Her boyfriend."

"Husband. They got married on Mars."

"Oh, God, I should put the coffee on. They're probably wiped out, but I can't wait to hear all about the wedding."

Rick sniffed. "Oh, it's already on."

"What's on?"

"The coffee."

She sighed. "Are you always one step ahead of me?" It hadn't always been that way. When had things changed?

"Only when we're walking in circles, my love. I wouldn't want to miss out on a such a spectacular view."

Kate was still in very good shape - their trainer, Elise Mowry, was no spring chicken herself. But she did holistic health care, integrating physical therapy, weight training, modified yoga, tai chi and massage. She came twice a week and worked on both of them, as well as Martha, forcing them despite their chorus of whining and groans to stay flexible and use the damn weights they all hated so much.

(I know you worry about these things, so I thought it was only right to tell you. Yes. Despite his age, Richard Castle Beckett still had a reasonably cute butt, as did his elderly yet still lovely wife. So rest easy.)

Kate blushed and swatted him, but responded eagerly when he pulled her in for a kiss, his hands undoing the hair tie and unraveling her long braid into rippling pewter waves.

She said, "I wonder if we have time for a quickie..."

He kissed her just below her jaw, one of his favorite spots, and she wiggled against him, her laugh throaty, and he said, "Let me just move the books off the table..."

"No, you'll hurt your back again, let's go upstairs..."

They heard a car landing on the pad outside, next to the driveway. Betty ran to the door, barking joyously.

Rick said, "Damn."

Kate smiled ruefully. "She's still interrupting our makeout sessions."

"Betty's only twenty in dog years."

Kate scoffed. "I mean JoJo..."

The dog – and the ferret, Fennec, who appeared underfoot as if from nowhere, as usual - went ballistic with joy as Rick strode to the door and swung it wide. "Home from abroad at last!"

"Hey!" Their daughter threw her arms around her parents, and Rick gave her a kiss on the forehead, beaming with pride. - the resemblance was remarkable: eyes, nose, the ribbon-like upper lip, crooked smile, and dimples. Fortunately her chin was a little smaller, but Like her mom, she hated doctors. She had no intention of messing with her jaw for vanity's sake. And she enjoyed looking like her dad, even though she tended more toward Ruggedly Handsome than either Kate's or Martha's delicate feminine beauty. It had turned out well. Armen thought she was a knockout, and it wasn't just because she'd accidentally knocked him out during sparring practice at the base on Mars.

Kate reached out to bring Armen in for a group hug, with Betty bounding and the ferret weaving among their legs. (The cats were asleep on the window seat in the sun, and couldn't care less). Johanna beamed, "Oh, my god, you guys look great! Mom, Dad, this is my husband Armen." They knew this. They were already hugging. It was purely a formality. Also, Johanna wanted to make damn sure they remembered his name. They'd had a bit of trouble with Pietro. Dad had told her it was the Pi.

Armen was a little shorter than Johanna, bald on top with heavy brows and a five-oclock shadow that had probably sprung twenty minutes after shaving. She'd told them he could bench-press 300 lbs. They believed her. Armen smiled at both of them, shook their hands with care (so she'd warned him about the arthritis) and said, "I'm so glad to finally meet you both. Johanna has told me so much about your exploits... what I didn't already know from reading your books. _Up in Arms?_ Rocked my world."

Rick's eyes softened and he blushed slightly, as he always did when someone liked his work. "Thanks."

Kate huffed a little sigh of relief. "Well, you have better taste in literature than the other guys, so I'm sure we'll get along fine." She patted her husband's butt gently. "Anyone want coffee?" She gestured, directing them to the duel sofas and crazy old cow-horn chair by the fireplace. She brought out the cups, setting them out while Rick brought the extras and coffee pot on a sturdy tray, bending with care to avoid spilling when he set them on the coffee table. He poured the Bitter Elixir of Life Itself and they all took a sip.

Kate murmured, "Heaven."

JoJo said, "Mmm. Sometimes I dream about your coffee, Dad." She looked around the room and said, "Where's Grams?"

"Oh, she sleeps most of the time now," said Rick. "Her aide will be by at four to help her downstairs for dinner. She'll hold court for a couple of hours then it's off to dreamland again." He sat down on the sofa, next to Kate. Within a minute, Betty had stretched herself across their feet. To keep them warm, of course.

JoJo smiled fondly, "I can't believe Grams is still hanging on. What is she, 115 now?"

Kate said, "What year is it?"

Johanna stared at her mother anxiously. "2062. Ever since January, mom." She rolled her eyes, passing it off as a joke, but anyone could see she was concerned.

"Then she's one hundred twenty, right?" Kate glanced at Rick for confirmation. "1942?"

"As far as anyone knows, your math's fine." Castle snorted. "My mother will outlive us all."

Johanna said, "I wouldn't wish that on Grams. She'd have nobody to boss around."

An hour later they were still sitting around the fireplace, looking at snapshots and telling stories about the tiny civil wedding at the central command station, and the impromptu honeymoon on Mars. JoJo had already gone through a couple of marriages, but it looked like this one was going to stick because she'd found someone who loved space exploration as much as she did. She said, "I can't believe that after looking literally all over the solar system for true love, it turned out to be my very own project resource manager."

Armen's long eyelashes batted, and he patted her cheek. "The course of true love never did run smooth. Also I know how to get real chocolate below commissary prices."

"These Beckett women," Rick said. "I'm warning you, they're trouble."

Armen nodded, shrugging in modest, amused resignation. "I know. I knew right away."

Rick nodded back. "Welcome to The League of the Irretrievably Smitten."

Johanna's hooded blue eyes went wide and she sketched a holo projector in the air before her with her fingertips. "The honeymoon was amazing! Dad, you really _have_ to see Mt. Olympus. Look at these pics. From three hundred clicks away, you just keep looking up, and up, and up, and there's almost no atmo, so it just... _looms_ at you. Like it's alive, watching you. It boggles the mind. "

He rubbed his hands together. "Sounds good!" He knew he'd never make it off-world at this age, but it was always fun to get a rise out of his wife. "I'm already packed and ready to go. We can have breakfast on the moon, and be on Mars by Tuesday."

Kate said, "Castle, hasn't your mind already been boggled enough?"

Rick caught her eyes with the intensity of his gaze, and murmured, "You have no idea."

Kate blushed again, and bit her lip. Johanna and Armen didn't know exactly why, but it seemed to be a flirtation between them. A private joke, maybe.

Armen gestured to the cardboard box on the table. "So, did your new book get printed, Sir? Jo tells me you were waiting."

"None of that _'Sir'_, Armen. You're family now. It's Rick, or Dad, or you can call me Castle. Most of my friends..."

His voice trailed off. He had a lot of casual friends, even now. But most of his good friends, the ones he truly loved, had died.

Armen nodded shyly. "Castle. Johanna filled me in about it. Like Jameson Rook at the precinct. Last names."

"Exactly." Rick cleared his throat and continued. "Just got the advance copy today." He beamed at Johanna. "I thought you might want to show your mom the dedication." It had always been a family tradition, since Rick would get the advance copies at home, show them to the children, and then they would mob Kate when she came home from court sessions.

"All right."

Kate looked back and forth between her daughter and husband, so alike in temperament, always ready for the next new thing. "Ok, then? Anytime would be fine, preferably before I drop dead."

Johanna opened the new book to the dedication page, smiled again, then silently handed it to Kate, blinking back tears. "I can't... Dad... you are just so... _sweet_."

Kate placed Rick's glasses on her nose again and read aloud, her voice catching with emotion.

"_With love and everlasting gratitude to the extraordinary KB,  
who has not only saved my life,  
but that of countless others through her tireless efforts  
yet still makes time to read my scribblings and point the way,  
__always  
in the best direction__.  
To our three amazing children,  
and our grandchildren,  
I can only say that I will love you forever,  
and I wish you Godspeed  
in all your enterprises and adventures."_

Kate hugged the book to her chest, suddenly looking five decades younger, blushing like the lovely bride she'd been so long ago.

"Castle," she murmured. He drew her in for a hug, taking the book and setting it on the couch beside them. "What direction do you want to take now?

"Anywhere you want to go," he said quietly. She felt it more than hearing it, the sweet rumble in his chest. "Together."

* * *

**October 14, 2062**

The animals on the bed were restless, and Betty awoke Rick with whining. It was about 6:45. He rose up on one shoulder and kissed Kate's cheek to waken her as usual, but she didn't respond. Normally she'd do something, a hum, a murmur, a frown, a twitch. He stroked her cheek, suddenly worried.

"Beckett?" He took her hand and patted it, found her pulse imperceptible beneath his frantic, searching fingers. He jerked upright, scattering pets, and hurriedly rolled her onto her back. She just flopped, her mouth and eyes sagging slightly open, registering no consciousness, no emotion. He hurried to the bathroom and grabbed a hand mirror and the little flashlight they kept for emergencies, then dashed back (as much as he could run dash, given his age.) Her breath barely fogged the mirror he held to her nose. Her pupils didn't respond when he checked them with the flashlight. "Kate. Kate, please. Please wake up. _Kate!"_

But there was no waking her. The last thing she'd said before she drifted off the night before was, "So tired. Love you." He wondered if she knew. Does anyone ever know?

Rick and Kate had talked about letting nature take its course when the time came. Of course there had been a lot of medical advances - maybe too many, with immense pressure on the environment from an overabundance of people competing for resources, and those people living longer and longer. They had lots of money, and they'd done a few things to keep themselves vital and strong long past what might have been expected. But they'd lived a lot. Lived _enough_. Seen a bit too much, between the police work and the war and the reconstruction after the world economy collapsed. So this seemed to be as good a time as any to let her go. But he held on anyway.

He'd said it before, and felt about the same way, only now it was worse and better, because it wasn't violent and he knew she loved him. "Don't leave me, Kate. Don't leave me alone. I love you."

He was holding her hand, stroking her hair, whispering soft nothings with a mouth too dry to talk, when she breathed her last a moment later. It wasn't even an effort, just a soft rasp. No last words, no squeeze from her limp hand. Which is, of course, the last way anyone would have expected Supreme Court Justice "Kickass Kate" Beckett to die. They had joked about it, gallows humor. Blow up a building? Drive the car off a cliff? Drown in quicksand? Blaze of glory - together. On a more practical level, they had a FastPass arrangement, that if either of them got too sick, it was all right to go. Rick realized that this arrangement was selfishly fine with him as long as he went first so that he wouldn't have to live without her. But she was gone, without him, and she had a DNR on file with the local FastPass agency. There was no point in calling an ambulance. No point in putting her, or himself, through the stress of resuscitation. There was really no point to anything anymore, in his eyes.

She'd said it before, so many years ago. "We've had a good run." That had to be good enough. But it wasn't.

He backed off a moment, face buried in his hands, then paced about the room for a moment. The ferret was nowhere to be seen. He put the cats out into the hallway.

He turned to Betty. She looked as miserable as he felt, climbing stiffly down off the bed, her tail between her legs, her sorrowful face sagging as she whined and leaned against his hip. Betty understood about death. Rick did, too, on a completely different order of magnitude. But her touch didn't comfort him, nor could his comfort her. Kate was gone, gone, gone. "Kate," he whispered. "It's too _soon_. I wanted..."

He couldn't complete the sentence. The dog crawled under the bed and hid, howling as if the world had ended. She was right.

Before rigor mortis could set in, he gently composed Kate's body, laying her out on her back with hands at her sides. He stayed with her a couple of long hours, just watching her not sleeping, not wanting the FastPass Agency team to touch her just yet. He mourned as only someone who loves deeply and loses everything can mourn. Then he contacted Lanie.

"Kate's gone," he whispered.

"Gone where..." she stared at is face, and her expression crumpled in grief. "Oh, no."

"Yeah."

"Oh, honey. Hang on. I'll be there in an hour."

"I'll send a hovercar around, if you like."

"Sure. I'll be ready in fifteen. Are you alone?"

He hesitated. The dog was there; his mother was still asleep. "Never more alone than I am right now," he muttered. Martha's home health aide wouldn't arrive until ten. He didn't want to tell her. She'd want to help and wind up needing him to take care of her, throw a fuss, then forget exactly why. Usually that was fine, even entertaining, but not at this moment.

Lanie said, "I'll wave your kids. Hang tight till I get there, Castle. We'll take care of her."

When he met Lanie at the door forty minutes later, he was still in his pajamas, unable to leave Kate's body long enough to take a shower. Lanie herself was still in emerald-green flannel pajamas under her trench coat, her hair swathed in a terrycloth turban. She was wearing sneakers, though, and carrying her emergency bag. Lanie had been in the middle of 'putting her face on' when she got Rick's call, and there was a black smear of mascara under one eye. She hadn't gotten to the other one yet.

He seemed strangely calm to her, so big and solid even now after the worst blow of his life, but the bleak misery in his face brought forth fresh tears for him, for Kate, and for herself. Lanie was normally quite composed in the face of death, but to her own amazement, she collapsed into his arms, weeping, and he just held her, his body occasionally shuddering as if an earthquake were passing through. Finally her sobs faded to hiccups and she said, "Oh, my God. I'm so sorry. I should be the one comforting you." She grimaced in embarrassment.

He shook his head. "It's okay." It was actually sort of a relief to try comforting someone who wasn't as devastated as he was. Grief can be strange that way.

Her words felt useless, but she said it anyway, taking his two hands in her own. "I'm so sorry for your loss. So sorry for _our_ loss."

"Yeah," he breathed. "You ready?"

They went upstairs.

Waiting by the closed bedroom door, Betty didn't bark at Lanie. She just stood next to Kate's body, standing guard. Lanie paid the dog no mind, just went to directly to take the still, slim white hand. She checked for a pulse, felt the cooling skin, noticed that Kate's eye sockets and cheeks and throat, always delicately constructed, had already collapsed in a little. Lanie's voice trembled, and she spoke to Rick. "Time of death. Six thirty a.m.?"

He drew in a shuddering breath. "Seven oh-five or so. You haven't lost your touch."

"No," Lanie said, and she shared a sad, trembling smile with Castle. "Just my best friends."

* * *

**October 20, 2062, The Old Haunt, Soho, NYC**

The family held a wake for Kate. Alexis and her husband David juggled all the details of supporting her dad and looking after her Gran. They invited only the people they both really loved, their closest circle of about thirty friends and relations (those things can grow with exponential speed). Rick greeted everyone and circulated the room, his eyes red and glazed, really seeing no one although he talked as if he were fine.

Peter even showed up, from God-knows-where, tall and gorgeous and looking much younger than his fiftyish years, but haggard and exhausted, walking with a severe limp that they all knew would be gone in two days or so. He told everyone he'd had an "accident" working on an "experiment" at the Antarctica 5 camp.

That got a rueful laugh from Castle. "I'll believe two out of three."

Seeing his son was a surprise, since Peter tended to disappear on missions for months at a time. They always got on well when he came home, but like his mother, Peter had seen too much, and the walls tended to come up as fast as they came down. His work was classified, and he was never around for long although he obviously missed his family deeply. They hadn't seen him in far too long. He'd had to break plans several times. That's how it goes when you're an enhanced operative. He was like his father that way, needing to be needed. And like his mother, he tended to risk too much to find the truth.

Martha held court in her scooter, her bright-orange wig ("it's called Indian Summer Sunset, darling, isn't it gorgeous?") slightly askew, but her voice strong despite her age. She wasn't 100 percent there, and her short-term memory was essentially gone, but she still made people laugh and told amazing stories. Or at least, interesting and seemingly unrelated vignettes. And she could still read the mood of a room. Several times, Martha shook her head and muttered things like "I'm amazed those bastards took so long to get our Katherine", and had to be reminded that Kate had died peacefully in her sleep, with Rick at her side. "Last thing I would have expected!" Martha laughed. "That woman was always full of surprises." She looked at her son for a long moment, then took his hand and kissed the knuckles. "Richard," she said quietly. "My sweet boy." Her bright eyes misted. "You were lucky to have found so great a love."

Lanie and her grown kids were there; Ameena and the grown sons she'd raised alone after Javi was killed. Matt and Chloe came, although their girls were long moved away; Mo's daughter Nuwwar came, as did a few people from Black Pawn and from Kate's offices. Sarah Grace Ryan showed up with her wife and their kids. Kayla came, with a a little comic book she'd drawn, "The Adventures of Kick-Ass Kate". She gave copies away to everyone, and everyone cried, because it was so damn cool, and Kate had never had her own comic book, and she really would have loved it. Elise, who had become close to the family but was never comfortable at parties, stayed away, but sent flowers. Alexis' son Jimmy wasn't able to make it, but he sent flowers and did a livewave from the Kiev University Library to talk with his parents, aunt, uncle, and grandfather, who told him, "You can come get the ferret anytime" and got a surprisingly big laugh from the crowd around him. Meredith, thankfully, was in Greece with her fourth husband, and unable to attend. There were speeches and funny stories and reminiscences and tears, and the caterer served nonfat vanilla lattes and strawberry shakes, cronuts and donuts, cheeseburgers, french fries, kung pao chicken and beef chow mein. Nobody wanted to eat, but they ate a little anyway, because that's what you do at funerals. Someone brought a lime jello salad with peas for the buffet. They never figured out who.

Tiffany Ross came too.  
She and the Becketts had grown to know one another well over the years and had the friendship of happenstance, people who would otherwise never have become acquainted. The only thing they really had in common was a love of dogs, and one really awful day at a serial killer's home. Tiffany had not cracked open a work of fiction since leaving Murphy's attic. They might as well have been from different planets, but they cared deeply for one another. Although she had retired a decade ago from her veterinary practice, she was still compassionate in the face of suffering. And she had a FastPass License to Dispense, as the euphemism goes. Rick thought about asking her to come down to the basement with him. But some things are better done in the light.

She smiled up at him – although she hadn't had to crane her neck so much over the last decade. "Hey, Rick."

"Hey, Tiff." The light in his eyes was gone, and he looked like a man marking time.

She murmured, "I'm so sorry about Kate. She was... She was such a great person. Really... so nice."

"Thank you." How many times had he said that today? His mind was numb, and it wasn't from age. "She was. Thank you."

Tiffany began, somewhat shyly. "I don't know whether you remember the day we met..."

"Some of it." A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth, not a real one. He was lying. He remembered almost every second of it, except the part where he was drugged, although usually he pushed it all down and away, and he'd never reclaimed his former love for quiescently frozen confections, or bacon for that matter. He looked through Tiffany, hopelessly, as if he might see someone else on the other side of her.

"You were drugged. I thought you were gonna kill me at first, and then you made me stand in the shower and scream my lungs out, then you were talking on the phone with Kate, and you told her, _"There's no me without us."_

He nodded, swallowing back tears, and rasped, "That's still true."

Tiffany looked away, afraid to say it. But she'd ended suffering before, not just for pets. It was legal and considered ethical. You just had to know how to calibrate the dosage. "You've done so much for me. Saved my life. Helped me become what I really wanted."

"You don't owe me anything." His look had brightened, though, the words unspoken: _"But, since you're here..."_

"You'll feel better in a while. You wanna give yourself time... get your stuff in order. Maybe go home?"

"It's in order." He nodded, his voice almost expressionless, as if he were doing an inventory of automotive parts. "There is no home without Kate." Tiffany blinked back tears and put her hand on his arm.

"I got the notarized permission form, but are you sure?"

"Yeah." He glanced emptily around the full room. "Why make everyone fly in twice?"

"It's not about convenience, Rick!"

"Death is _never_ convenient." There was a flash of anger in his eyes. "Look, if you want to make me wait, I'll just go somewhere else, and next week everyone has to come here and try to make conversation again. So, do you have it with you?"

She swallowed. "I do."

"I'm ready. I've been ready since her heart's last beat."

She sighed. "All right then. You should sit down."

He sat in his favorite booth near the dartboards, where he'd finished writing In a Hail of Bullets; where Cannell got him drunk and sent him out to steal a horse naked; where he'd sat with Kate and the Ryans and Espo and Lanie so many times. Tiffany squeezed his arm. He felt a slight pinch through his sleeve, inside his elbow, then a spreading coolness, a heaviness. Or maybe it was warmth and lightness. It was hard to tell, but not unpleasant.

"Barely anything," he said, surprised.

She smiled. "I splurged on the good stuff. FastPass 111. No dizziness, no vomiting, no paralysis. You'll be lucid to the end. You have maybe five minutes. Make the most of it."

They embraced and he murmured in her ear. "Thank you, Dr. Ross."

"I'll just send your kids over. They'll want to say goodbye."

Rick nodded assent. He'd thought about just fading away in the corner, but that didn't really seem fair.

After a few moments he felt the light-heaviness through his upper body, down to his fingertips. He put his elbows on the table and huffed, "Wow, death really takes it out of me." He put his forehead down on his palms. Not woozy, but very tired. He ought to be scared. But what he really felt was similar to sitting in his Ferrari for the first time and starting the ignition. Excited. Ready to go. Only calmer.

He heard his mother's voice in the distance. "Richard, either you need to stop drinking champagne, or drink a lot more of it." Rick chuckled and shook his head. It was the third time that day that Martha had forgotten she was at Kate's wake. It actually _was_ a very nice party.

He raised his head with effort and smiled around the room. Johanna was already approaching her father with a "You wanted to talk to me, Dad?" Something in his face made her grab Peter's arm, and they rushed to him.

Her eyebrows pinching in a desperate frown, she cried, "Dad?" Her usually cheerful face contorted in fear. "Lanie? Get Lanie. Somebody get a doctor. Alexis? _Lexi_!"

Rick felt Peter's strong arm come around to support him, and he sagged against his son. Peter said softly, "I got you. You take a FastPass?"

Rick muttered, "Yeah."

"Aw, Dad," Peter sighed. "Bit soon, don't you think?"

"No. Fifty's the new thirty, but... ninety's still ninety."

Johanna huffed. "Dad, this no time for jokes."

"Tell that to Oscar Wilde," Rick smiled shakily.

Alexis' face bloomed into view like a pale flower in twilight. Her voice went high, childlike, and she sobbed "Daddy?" With effort, he reached up to cup his eldest daughter's slightly-wrinkled cheek in his hand, staring deeply at her with a gentle smile. It was like a veil of years had been removed from her lovely, middle-aged face, and he could see time counting backward, to when she was just a baby, with her wide blue eyes and glowing skin, her face full of wonder. Only now she was nearly old, her fiery hair had faded to a white-streaked strawberry beige, and the wonder had been replaced with grief.

Tears spilling, Rick whispered, "Bye-bye, Pumpkin."

"Dad, what did you do? You can't just give up like this!" Her outburst caught everyone's attention, and the room went quiet, but Armen and David had sussed out what was happening, and kept the rest of the guests back.

Castle shook his head. "Remember when Jenny and Ryan were killed? Kate and I talked about it. We were both glad they went together- sad for their kids, but... it just fit. I'm not giving up. Just letting go." All four of them were crying quietly in the dark booth's shadows. With his free hand, Peter pulled out a hankie and handed it to Johanna, who was dissolving into heartrending sobs. Rick's eyes closed sleepily. They stung, just a little. He felt very ready for a nap.

"_No_." Alexis looked angry, as if she was about to take her father by the shoulders and shake him. Instead, she pulled out her phone. "I'll order up an antidote. They can have a team here in five-"

Peter stopped her with an upraised palm, and held Rick a little tighter, even as he felt his father slipping away. He spoke gently to his sister. "Lexi. 'The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care.'"

Rick barely had the strength to smile. He twitched his fingers, and each daughter took one of his hands.  
His last word? Alexis' first:

"Denouement."

* * *

•

After Rick had died, they broke the news to Martha. She sat quietly for a long moment, and her expression reminded them all bitterly of her son's faded light over the days since Kate's passing.

She took a long, deep, shaky breath and said, "Richard's dead?" just trying to comprehend it. "Richard's dead."

Alexis said, "Yes, Grams. He sat down in the booth over there, and he just... he was tired. He's gone. I'm so- " she started to sob. _'Sorry'_ did not begin to cover it.

Martha peered over, her blue eyes swimming, her voice shaking. "No. He's right there, sitting with Peter."

"Peter's bracing his body up, Grams."

Without a word, Martha flipped the switch on her chair and it hover-glided through the narrow aisle to the booth where Peter sat supporting his father's body. Johanna had given the handkerchief back, and he wiped his own face, then his father's.

Martha looked at Rick's slack face closely and, reaching out, put a hand on his chest.

"Oh, Richard. So many times," she whispered. "So many times I've checked to make sure you were still breathing." She pressed her other hand over her eyes for a long, agonizing moment, then with a sigh, she sat up straight and threw both hands up, the bracelets jangling on her bird-thin wrists. "So much for being the life of the party."

Alexis facepalmed for a moment, then to her own surprise, found herself giggling behind her hand. _"Gram!"_

Then Peter started laughing, and Johanna too. She came around the other side of the booth to help her brother, and together they laid Rick's body out flat on the deep bench seat, and tried to make it symmetrical and dignified, but his limp arm kept slipping off the edge and flopping down.

Alexis snickered and put hands on her hips, imitating her stepmom. "If Kate were here right now, she'd say, "_Castle!_ Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Peter said, "I don't know about Dad, but I could sure use a drink right about now." Lanie walked over with a bottle of Jameson and a glass. He took a drop of Scotch on his finger, sniffed it, and dabbed it under Rick's upper lip. Rick didn't move. Peter raised the glass and said, "Last chance, Dad."

Being dead, Rick still didn't move.

Lanie added, "Yup, definitely dead." She was smiling and crying at the same time.

Hooting with laughter, Johanna crawled under to catch Rick's hand and bring it back up, and announced, "Holy crap, there is a _shitload_ of gum under this table!" and that got the whole room going.

It was overwhelming, the shock and the sadness and the weird _rightness_ of Richard Castle dropping dead at his wife's wake. Johanna tried stuffing Rick's thumb into his belt loop to keep his hand in place, but her angle was wrong. She sighed in frustration. "Anybody got cuffs?"

Peter hesitated and pulled some soft-cuffs out of his own back pocket. He and Johanna interlaced Rick's fingers together on his chest and cuffed his wrists together to hold them in place. "This should keep him out of trouble."

"About time something did," said Martha with a sigh. "Let's open some champagne, shall we?"

Corks popped. Bubbly flowed. Martha banged on the steel frame of her chair. "A toast. To my son, Richard, and to his wife, Katherine, the daughter my heart always wanted. I know that sounds somewhat odd, but she was truly family. They were blessed to find one another, and perhaps they will be blessed to find one another again. Here's to true love."

David went to the piano and started playing "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien" and when Martha started singing, everyone who knew it joined in.

Yeah, that was one hell of a wake. When the FastPass Postmortem Management Team arrived, they were puzzled to find the party was in full swing. Johanna, who at least in temperament took very much after her grandmother, was dancing on the piano, the fact that it was an upright making no difference to her. Tiffany submitted the official paperwork to the director while the technical crew cleaned up. While they wheeled Rick's body out to their van, David played and sang Tom Lehrer's "We'll All Go Together When We Go."

_When you attend a funeral,_  
_ It is sad to think that sooner or_  
_ Later those you love will do the same for you._  
_ And you may have thought it tragic,_  
_ Not to mention other adjec-_  
_ Tives, to think of all the weeping they will do._  
_ But don't you worry._  
_ No more ashes, no more sackcloth._  
_ And an armband made of black cloth_  
_ Will some day never more adorn a sleeve._  
_ For if the bomb that drops on you_  
_ Gets your friends and neighbors too,_  
_ There'll be nobody left behind to grieve._

_ And we will all go together when we go._  
_ What a comforting fact that is to know._  
_ Universal bereavement,_  
_ An inspiring achievement,_  
_ Yes, we all will go together when we go..._

Despite being the object of the usual Castle gallows humor, it really was that, just a body. Rick had been mostly-already-gone since Kate's death. Yet, in that paradoxical way of funerals and wakes and aftermaths, it was easy to imagine that they were still there, although of course, not there at all.

I'll repeat it: one hell of a wake. There was laughing, there was crying, two of the caterers had drunk sex in the bathroom, the bar ran out of champagne and someone ran down to the local bodega to buy more. Someone (nobody knows who) ate about half of the lime jello salad with peas, and we can only assume how much they regretted it later. There were Rick stories and Kate stories, and Kate-and-Rick stories. Alexis yelled at Tiffany, Tiffany cried and apologized, Johanna yelled at Alexis, Alexis cried, Peter yelled at both of them for yelling at each other and at Tiffany, and then another round of drinks were ordered. Martha forgot that her son had died (and her daughter in law as well) and just for the time being, they all left it that way. Someone made s'mores - but NOT s'morelettes - on the grill. The cook had to spend an hour scraping caramelized marshmallow off the next day. Nobody got home till after midnight. Best wake ever.

As for the FastPass contract, there would be no freezing of heads for Rick and Kate for later thawing and transplant, no burial, no cremation and scattering of ashes. Their children and their works were their only legacy, their only memorial on paper and in the aether. The FastPass techs entwined their bodies as if in sleep, and they were vaporized in the funerary chamber together. In a brief blinding flash, they were gone, only the words and memories remaining. Nothing but photons.

You know. Stardust.

•

* * *

Of course, it doesn't really end there. This story's truly happy ending requires going full circle. Keep reading.  
•


	69. Chapter 69: Pearly Gates

Sorry about that. It hurt me to write. It gets better from here.

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 68 -**  
**Full Circle  
or,  
The Pearly Gates Revisited**

* * *

**Location: The Pearly Gates  
Time: Completely Immaterial  
**

"Uh-oh."  
Katherine Houghton Beckett stood naked, little clouds around her ankles, staring out at a field of white clouds topped with a blue sky, topped with more clouds, ad infinitum, rather like a layer cake. It was nice to notice that she couldn't really feel anything: no arthritis, no neck or back pain, no pull on the scar over her heart, no bunions aching. So that wasn't so bad. Her _vision_ was completely clear for the first time in years, but it wasn't that pleasant a _view_. She could only hear a grinding sort of semi-musical hum, and a scratching noise. She looked over her shoulder and turned to face a set of pearl-colored gates, purple plastic with bits of silver glitter, like the Kaboodles box she got for her birthday when she was fourteen that never quite fit or organized her makeup collection.

A demon was waiting for her, leaning his back against one of the gates, making it bend inward and warp with his heat and sheer mass, sharpening his long claws on one of those overpriced whetstones from Williams-Sonoma. He looked a little too much like Dick Coonan, the man who had stabbed her mother to death. He was tall and coal-red, made of lava and beefy-cheeked malice, with smouldering yellow eyes and a glow-in-the-dark penis resembling a vibrator she'd bought on impulse when she was 22 and left behind in the bathroom at a nightclub (don't ask, I'm not giving any more details than that). Kate looked around wildly, hoping to see her parents, maybe Teresa or Jackson or Ryan or Esposito or even Roy Montgomery, who'd been a guardian angel in the oddest way imaginable. But there was no sign of anyone except the demon. He was holding a clipboard that smoked a bit around its edges.

_Not_ good. But she wasn't surprised. She'd done too many things out of expediency. Done too many things she wasn't proud of. And now she was apparently gonna suffer accordingly.

Her demon, and let's call him Dick, grinned at her, and drawled like a Disney villain: "Katherine Houghton Beckett. Former occasionally brutal detective with several kills under her belt, former ruthless attorney who put away 200 guilty and 3 innocent prisoners, appellate judge whose decisions left some people very rich and some people very broke and some people very solidly in the middle class. Then U.S. Supreme Court judge - interesting how you just rode on Weldon's coattails... - you do realize if you'd gone for Senator, the Water War would never have come to pass? And of course, if you'd gone for Captain of the Twelfth, maybe Ryan and Esposito would have stayed on there, and they'd still be alive, wouldn't they?"

Kate would have swallowed had she been able to do so. "I don't know. There's no way to..."

"The Twelfth's closure rate dropped from 97% to 84% when you left. Proud of yourself? Yes? No?" Dick chuckled. "Then Supreme Court Justice... haha, _Chief_ Justice! Human rights are _such_ a specialty of yours. Nice job getting the whales declared sentient while thousands of people on land continued to die at the hands of gun-toting child warlords... And ending the death penalty on a Federal level? No doubt everyone's very pleased with you about that. Rebellious, spoiled daughter; occasionally absent wife; frequently absent mother; killer, liar, _monster_..."

Kate had no defense against a word he said. He looked her up and down the way a conventioneer eyes a stripper, and said, "What, you're not gonna argue with me, Your Honor? Or is this a case of 'Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged'?"

He counted off on his long, bloodstained claws. "Seven deadly sins. Envy - check, particularly when it comes to that green eyed monster. Gluttony - entire bucket of popcorn at Star Wars Episode 9. Lust - " (he briefly flicked the tip of his overlarge penis with his overlong tongue) "hooooo, yeah. Check, check, check, check, _check_ on the lust, you wench you. Anger - how many items of furniture and one-way mirrors did NYPD have to replace? Check. Greed - eh. Not so much, but... oh, wait, I forgot to count your shoe collection, and check. Also, I hear you died rich. Sloth... well, there were those entire weekends you spent in bed with What's-His-Name. Pride, oh, yeah, you got that one in spades. Also you littered a few times..."

"I did not!"

"And lying. Bonus point! Welcome to the Pearly Gates Admissions Vestibule. Please take this clipboard" - it just sort of appeared from behind his back, maybe - "and fill out all the forms in triplicate, then proceed to Line A. Once you have completed the forms, they will be added to the queue for review and approval by the Purgative Committee. Your wait time is approximately..." he looked at his wrist, as she would have looked at a watch. An ornate word burned its hissing way through his scorched brown skin, shining with bright-yellow light that sliced out in sharp beams. "Ooh, look. Firefly's on!"

"_Really?_ Let me see that..."

"Gotcha! That was cancelled. _Again_. Hahaha, I do so love dashing hopes and dreams."

He snickered and shook his arm. The word flew away in black ash, and was replaced by numbers Kate couldn't read. "Your number is, of course, 666. As is everyone else's." He pointed vaguely behind her. She looked back into a flaming, cavernous maw, like a shadow against the blue sky, where several hundred thousand people wound behind her in an endless line. They were all doing paperwork with their clipboards, and those near the front... oh, wait. There was no front. It went around in a circle, twisting and spiraling in on itself and coming back out again, a snake eating its own tail.

Kate groaned, "Shut the front door."

The demon grinned down at her, showing gold flash amongst its fangs. "We'll make sure it closes behind you, Katherine Houghton Beckett. Have a nice day."

She took the clipboard, which should have burned her fingers, but she could feel nothing. The clipboard had sort of a mouth on it, and two beady little eyes. It had sharp gray teeth, a wicked case of gum disease, and it kept biting its own tongue as it talked, spraying out pinkish slobber.

It squawked in a shrill lisp that would make Gilbert Gottfried plug his ears in pain. "If your pen runthh out of ink, you'll have to thhtart all over."

She walked over to the line, and choosing a spot at random, stepped in between two miserable, faceless bureaucrats. She found her feet dragging in a thick, sticky, tar that reached up like tiny salamander paws and clung to her skin. She trudged along, trying to write. Her pen kept smearing. The letters swam before her eyes and rearranged themselves into probable obscenities in an alphabet she didn't recognize. She seemed to be moving deeper and deeper into a labyrinth of bored, exhausted, angry lost souls. Some of them looked really sad, and she got the nasty feeling that it was her fault, that she'd done something terrible to wrong them, but she had no idea what it was. Her mind grew foggy, and looking down at her clipboard, she had trouble remembering her own name. She could no longer see the blue sky, nor the clouds, nor the gate. Was she looking for someone? She tried to remember her mother's smile, her father's kind eyes, Javi's swagger and laugh, Kevin's chipper grin and nervous twitch. They'd be waiting for her, wouldn't they?

The man in front of her turned to her and sneered, "Feeling warm?" He was holding a bucket of ice. The features of his face rearranged themselves into that of Vulcan Simmons.

Kate said, "I'm fine, thanks. Not feeling much of anything right now." Simmons looked disappointed, and threw the ice anyway. At least it looked like ice, showering over her, but her comment held true: she felt nothing.

Simmons laughed without mirth. "Now you're dead behind the eyes, just like me. Everywhere else, too, Detective Beckett. You feel nothing because you _are_ nothing."

But she did feel something. A faint sensation as of a distant cold breeze behind her. Someone spoke.

"I'll be at your back. Always." She half-turned eagerly, looking for a face she could barely remember, someone important, someone she had loved beyond measure. But behind her trudged the serial killer who tried to take everything from them: Michael McGowran, and then she remembered he was... who? Someone's brother, someone... Rick. Rick's brother. Rick Castle. She loved him. Richard Alexander Edgar Allen Poe... the name blurred in her mind. She was having trouble remembering who he was, _why_ she loved him...

But she remembered this man before her, this Michael-Jerry-McGowran-Tyson-thing-man who had killed so many. Ruined so many lives. He lunged for her throat, going to strangle, but his hands passed right through. She didn't even need to defend herself.

_"I don't need to defend myself."_ What a concept. If you don't need to defend yourself, does that mean you're beyond hurt, and if you're beyond hurt, are you actually in hell?

"Where's Rose?" he said bleakly.

"Who?"

"Kelly. Kelly Nieman." He shifted, as if his feet were burning. His fingers were on fire. He tried to blow them out and red sparks flew along the charred fissures of his fingertips, circling, maze-like, and all he could do was stare at his hands.

Kate said, "Kelly Nieman? I would've thought she'd be with you."

"No," he mumbled. "I'm all alone. Except you."

She stared at him and gestured around. "Can't you see any of these people?"

"What people? It's just me. Just me."

"Nobody to hurt," Kate said. "That must be hell for you."

"Nobody to blame, either. Only myself." Michael's brown eyes stared blankly.

Kate felt oddly light. "Not even yourself. It's over." She searched for the right words and was surprised to find the obvious, but up until now, impossible. "I forgive you."

"You hate me."

"I don't."

"Then I'm nothing. I'm not even here."

He started to fade, then rippled, and was gone, and everyone behind him was walking away, and Kate realized the line had changed direction, although she still had the sense they were going nowhere. The man now in front of her rotated his head around 180º, followed by the rest of his body. It was William Bracken, who had died in prison almost a year after Kate and Rick married. He snarled, "Ha. Kate Beckett. I told you I'd see you here."

Kate looked at him thoughtfully. "So," she said. "Who's tormenting who?"

A voice spoke gently, off to one side or another. It was hard to tell direction... "_Whom_. Although 'who' is the common accepted vernacular."

Kate wheeled to find Rick – or someone very much like him, walking outside, but somehow not on the sticky track she trudged. He looked amazing, even better than when she'd first met him; ageless, strong, graceful, and naked as the day he was born. Something about him shimmered, as if he had invisible wings. How could she have forgotten him? How could she forget herself?

She said, "Castle, ohmigod, I remember you! You're my... partner. My..."

"Other half? Husband? Best buddy?"

"Rick, no, please. Stay back. Don't get drawn into this."

Castle laughed, his eyes crinkling with mischief, and reached out his hand for her. "Don't you think you've done enough paperwork?"

Kate looked back at the miserable knot of humanity she'd fallen into line with. Murderers, rapists, child molesters, day traders, politicians, corrupt judges, thieves, pimps, kidnappers, rhinoceros poachers, spammers, Donald Trump, William Bracken, her 7th grade algebra teacher, parking enforcement officers, fracking apologists, real estate flippers, and the marketing genius who started the Cabbage Patch Doll craze. And she saw, mixed among them every single victim as well as every single perpetrator in every case she'd ever worked. A glance at each face told her their entire story, a mix of the mundane and the sublime, the cowardly and the courageous, people who had the chance for life and ran from it, or quailed, unable to act on their best impulses. People who'd killed or died or been killed or had given up too soon. She was one of them. Just a human being, blundering along, fucking up, then fucking up again, with occasional moments of...

It rushed at her. Hope. Peace. Bliss. Kindness. Courage. Forgiveness. Curiosity. Beauty. Love. Grace. She felt something like warmth.

Castle said, "You don't belong here. Am I right?"

Kate's clipboard whined, "Wait. You're not finished. You won't be done for a thousand years, and he'll forget all about you, and who needs him, anyway?"

"I do," Kate said. She tried to step out of line, and the black tar stuck to her feet, and the clipboard whined and wheedled, and hands in the sad, angry, crowded line pulled at her body, although she couldn't feel them, sweeping them along with their momentum. As if she were on a carousel, for a moment Castle seemed left behind, but he walked fast, catching up and keeping up easily.

"Let go, Kate."

"I can't."

"The clipboard, silly. Let go of the details."

"Oh." She threw the clipboard at Bracken – her very last act of justice – and threw herself at Rick. She couldn't exactly feel _him_, but as he easily caught her, it was almost as if she'd fallen _into_ him. She'd felt it before with him, thousands of times over the decades together, and recognized the sensation for what it was: _climax_. Spiraling, hot, tingly, all-encompassing, and not the sort of experience one discusses in polite company. The only thing missing was the physicality, and then she realized that her body had been the equivalent of a lightning rod trying to understand lightning. "OH! Wow. Omigod. That was... this... ohmigod." If she could breathe, she'd be breathing hard. "Sex... it was just an _approximation?"_

Rick laughed again. "Who'd have thought, huh?" He whispered in her ear. "I'm told it's even better on the other side."

"The other side of what?"

"I don't know yet." He gestured toward the gates. "Ready?"

"Wait. Did we die together?"

"Well, no, not exactly. You went first, I, uh, caught up as soon as I could."

"How long?"

Everything went strange and gray for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of an immense storage room, a jumble of boxes and broken things, mold and rot, charred books, freezers with the doors falling off their hinges, body parts spilling out on the floor... and no life anywhere. Silence, loneliness, grief. Rick looked sick, closed his eyes, seemed to waver like smoke in a breeze, about to fade.

"Castle. _RICK._ Snap out of it." She wrapped herself around him like a cloak, although she couldn't actually touch or hold him. Again there was that sense of falling in, that jolt of intense pleasure. Union. She felt him spin inside her, turn and twist like a joyful fish in a bucket of stars, and then he was slightly separate again, but he stayed close, doing The Lean Of_ 'That Really Was Too Damn Close For Comfort'_. He whispered, "Too long. But you know. Time doesn't really matter here. It's just... you remember Orpheus."

"Don't look back on your way out of hell?"

"Yeah."

She looked at the gates. "They're kind of hokey."

He nodded. "Mine are red plastic mother of pearl. Yours?"

"Wow. They're - I dunno, they're different now, maybe platinum wire, with blue sapphires and pearl strands draped... wait, why are we seeing different things?"

There was a movement to their left. Rick turned to the little man he'd described to her long ago: Santos Petros, the Guardian at the Gates, who had just sort of stepped out from between two clouds, or possibly been there all along without her noticing. Dick the Demon was nowhere to be seen. "Frame of reference," Petros said. "It's all an illusion based on your expectations. For all I know, this is the split second between living and the moment your brains shut down, and none of it's happening, and we're about to wink out of existence like neutrinos."

"Well, that's not very promising," Kate pouted.

Dick the Demon reappeared in a cloud of sulphur and waggled his tongue at her. "Do I hear whining?"

"Shush," said Castle. "Whether afterlife is an illusion or not, it doesn't matter to us, because we have no perception of time, so it can stretch on indefinitely. Watch this:"

Petros rolled his eyes. "Oh, dear, here we go."

Dick huffed, "To hell with this, I'm going out for a smoke." He was gone in a puff of hot-pink vapor.

Rick smiled at Kate. "How did Tolkien describe Valinor?"

Kate thought a moment. "'White shores and a swift sunrise.'"

They were on a sailboat made of polished, silvery-gray wood, with the dawn wind behind them, moving fast over smooth water. Seagulls wheeled overhead, the sun brightening the sky behind them as the stars faded, the bright-blue sea, cream-colored chalk cliffs in the distance and the glow of an immense white tree at the top of the bluff, the growing roar of surf...

"Wow," Kate said. "Can I try?"

"Sure."

"I'm gonna go for the Lake Isle of Innisfree."

"Can you leave out the Bee-Loud Glade?" Petros winced. "I hate the Bee-Loud Glade part."

"Sure," Kate said.

She recited it, and the scene fell into place around them, exactly like poetry. Exactly like heaven.

_"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, _

_Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; _

_There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, _

_And evening full of the linnet's wings. _

_I will arise and go now, for always night and day _

_I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; _

_While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, _

_I hear it in the deep heart's core."_

The clouds around their ankles had changed into the dock of the little lake by their cabin - her parents' old cabin - they stood on a road at the same time, but they could hear the crickets, and the dark trees rustled with the hidden wings of birds. Rick was in the cabin itself, and there was only one cricket, playing its little song by the hearth. They compared notes.

"So my heaven is not your heaven," Kate said, baffled.

"Kate. YOU are my heaven."

"I don't deserve this," she thought. "I can't... Shouldn't I be atoning for something?"

Castle saw her hesitation, tilted his head and smiled at her with eyes full of love. "It's not atonement. It's a-tome-ment."

"Tome. Like a _book_?" she scoffed. "That is the worst pun ever."

Petros looked her up and down, as a gardener would examine a beloved rosebush, as a parent would note every precious cell and gesture of a newborn baby. Kate felt that, too.

Kate looked down her body, if it was her body or something that looked like it but felt like... not needing it anymore... and realized that the wrinkles and sags of motherhood and old age had left her; the chestnut hair curled lazily down her shoulders, and best of all, her bunions were gone forever. No pain. Just this sort of shimmering _wow_. She looked like she remembered herself at her best, and at the same time, she knew it was nothing, and that it would change. It was just like a book binding, there to keep the story inside.

She felt utterly loved, without a single bereft cell or dark corner. She giggled in childlike wonder. "I think I'm beginning to understand."

Petros held up two hands as if to create a hologram projection. "Allow me to present you with the iSoul 92,000,012."

A sort of screen flashed into being, something like a murder board or maybe a fluttering bird, with a timeline, and lots of smaller screens, and books and definitions and moments from Kate's life and moments from Rick's, coming together and coming apart and coming together again. Also cooing a little.  
• A magic show, herself just an infant in her mother's arms, Rick a little blue-eyed boy, him holding her grandfather's rabbit, her squealing and waving a drooly fist toward the white fur. Her Papi saying to both of them, "Now, you have to be gentle."  
• Her grandfather's magic shop, Kate just a toddler, Rick stumbling over her when she was absorbed in playing with the Chinese rings, him showing her how, her crying when he had to leave.  
• Sneaking out with Maddie at fourteen, to see Rocky Horror. Rick a tall young in makeup and high heels standing in line in front of her. Making awkward conversation until her mother showed up in hair-curlers to drag her home. Neither of them ever realizing, until now, that they had met at that time.  
• A book signing, him arguing with Gina, Kate with purple hair, dropping something to get his attention and consumed with embarrassment when everyone stared at her.  
• Another book signing, her mother dead, her heart broken, waiting in line for an hour, leaving disgusted when he just couldn't be what she expected him to be.  
• "Mr. Castle?"  
"Where would you like it?..."

And the information kept coming, faster and slower, before and beyond, and she could see the big picture of them, see how the Richard Castle story, and the Katherine Beckett story, were only pages in a book of a library of a much, much bigger story, and that there can be no happy ending, because _there is no ending to love.  
_

* * *

"Oh!" She looked anxiously at Petros, then at the Gates, which were back to pearly again, this time more like abalone shell, like she'd found on a beach in California one foggy afternoon. "You're sure this is okay?"

Castle said, "Of course it's okay. You're with me."

"And I see that arrogance has followed you beyond the grave," she smirked.

Petros said, "Nope. Not arrogance. Just the honest truth." She glanced beyond Petros. Castle – that smug, silly man - had already opened the gate. _Without even asking. _

She could see beyond him – faces she loved, no, it was More. More with a capital M, More than seeing, More than faces, More than spirit, inexpressible in words even for the late, lamented, Richard Castle: her mother Johanna and her father James, Roy, Jackson Hunt (of course, that wasn't his real name, who cares?), Victoria and Corinne Gates, Kevin and Jenny, her grandparents, Aunt Teresa, even Mike Royce. Several dogs and cats crowded around their feet, including Betsy, and a lot of other Betsies, all with tails a-flailing, doing the Dance of "_Where The Hell Have You Been?"_

Here's the weird thing, the very weirdest: Kate could see people who hadn't even died yet - Martha, their children, Lanie, her old boyfriend Josh, Meredith, Gina, her friend Maddie, faces she recognized from her past and her future, people she hadn't met yet but whom she'd known forever and loved completely, blended together beyond time in to something bigger, something before and after and now, dark and light.

Castle held out his hand toward her, beckoning her through the gate, although on another level, he had never let it go. "You comin', Beckett?"

That's what she did. And inside time or out of it altogether, it wasn't a moment too soon.

**•THE END•  
*Really  
**

* * *

_*Of course, this is all idle speculation. There are no demons, no angels, there's no heaven, dogs can't talk, and for all we know, there isn't a single alternate universe in which Rick Castle and Kate Beckett exist. But I don't care. This is my story, and I'm sticking to it._

* * *

Author's note:  
The ending was written, for the most part, perhaps two days after the very first one wrote itself, with very minor tweaks. I guess everything else is just how they got from Point A to Point Z. I hope you've enjoyed the journey as much as I have.

I really do like happy endings. This is literally the happiest ending I can imagine for these dear characters: inseparable forever.

Thanks to Terri Edda Miller and Andrew Marlowe for creating this amazing show.

Thanks to Dia for her perfect prompt: "Richard Castle at the pearly gates".

I have noticed some startling similarities between stuff I wrote and the occasional moment onscreen in the show. Whoever thought of the Mia Laszlo character, and having Castle elbow her in the nose: Thank you. I feel so validated. :-D Take the ball and run with it.

Thanks above all to those who've done beta reading, read through voraciously, followed, and liked, and especially to those who've reviewed, caught my mistakes and kept me writing when my confidence flagged. I am so grateful for all of you!

I've been pretty consumed with TooSoon and really don't want it to end... I could keep adding in little tidbits forever and add whole stories about Peter and Betsy, not to mention Rick's new "muse", a teenage-detective-in-space version of Beckett. But now that I've proven to myself that I can actually write and finish a real novel, such as it is, it's time to take action on that. Otherwise I'll wind up trudging that endless labyrinth of "might-have-done", trying to write on a smoking clipboard with ink that never sets.

I'll try to let you know when I come up with something worth publishing in the 'real world'. No reason it shouldn't work for anyone who's willing to put in the effort.

If you're writing, don't stop. If you're not writing yet, start. It's your story.

LOVE AND HUGS TO ALL OF YOU!  
-CharacterDriven

aka alanapaints


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